Unsustainable
by thegraytigress
Summary: When Steve is forced to participate in a dangerous experiment, the consequences prove devastating. Driven by guilt and doubt, Bruce puts everything on the line to save Steve from becoming the monster within before the Avengers are forced to take down their own captain.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** _Iron Man 3, The Incredible Hulk,_ _Captain America: The First Avenger,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **So we did Steve and Tony ("Invincible") and Steve and Clint ("The Right Call") and Steve and Clint and Tony ("The Last Level") and Steve and Thor ("Self from Self") and Steve and Natasha ("Red Rain"). This is Steve and Bruce (with Tony and Clint in strong support). It's nestled after _Iron Man 3_ and _Thor: The Dark World_ but before _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ (spoilers for the first two but no spoilers for the latter). Of course, tons of whump and angst to go around. No pairings aside from Tony/Pepper (and Science Bros. bromance :-D). Parts of this story are canon with MCU, parts are canon with the comics, and parts I'm making up as I go (which might make this a tad AU? We'll see).

Also, my science is based on a mixture of how things might work, how things could work in comic-verse, and how the story needs them to work. So take it all with a grain of salt! Onward and enjoy!

**UNSUSTAINABLE**

**1**

Bruce Banner liked to stay out of the spotlight.

Therefore his friendship with Tony Stark was a little counterintuitive.

Tony was flashy and wealthy and extravagant and pretty much the polar opposite of Bruce in every way. Where Bruce was quiet and calm and reserved, Tony was loud and easily riled and opinionated. Where Bruce appreciated simplicity and anonymity, Tony craved complexity and notoriety. Tony actively sought out trouble, and Bruce did his damnedest to avoid it. Tony flourished with attention, and Bruce shriveled and floundered when people noticed him. They went together about as well as oil and water (with Tony as the highly combustible part of that mixture prone to explosion and disaster). If it wasn't for their mutual love of science, they'd really have nothing in common. Still, they'd inexplicably become friends.

Bruce still doubted his sanity sometimes. He really did.

"I'm kinda worried this thing is gonna blow up in my face." Tony was fiddling with the boot of his newest Iron Man suit (Mark 50 or something of those lines – honestly Bruce had lost count). And honestly Bruce had stopped listening a few minutes ago. Tony was prone to rambling and babbling nonsensically while he worked. That was another huge disparity in their personalities. Bruce actually appreciated peace and quiet, and there wasn't a whole lot of that around Stark Tower. He wondered sometimes if it would kill Tony to sit still for a moment and _not talk_. He wondered if he was even capable.

Stark sat on a stool, chewing on a piece of pepperoni pizza, staring at the innards of the boot. He had grease on his shirt (pizza or otherwise – Bruce didn't know). His face was tight with concentration, but his eyes suggested he really wasn't focused. At least not on one thing. Tony was brilliant, maybe the smartest man Bruce had ever known, and he was a phenomenal multitasker. He could simultaneously do a dozen things, his agile mind running much faster and more efficiently than his body (hell, than most computers), and not drop the ball on any of them. Well, a dozen things related to inventing and designing and building stuff. He was pretty bad at most other things: running his company, keeping his act together, keeping his life in order. Keeping Pepper happy (though that one was not for lack of trying, and since the Mandarin incident, things had definitely improved on that front).

But, then, Bruce was hardly one to judge. He wasn't exactly stellar at keeping his life together. Although, again, things had improved on that front since the Battle of New York a year and a half ago. A large part of his current stable state was due in no small part to Tony. The man had opened his home and his labs and his life to Bruce without ever making a show about it (which for Tony was saying something). They'd just fallen into each other, an easy relationship (the first Bruce had had in what felt like forever). Tony took him at face value, and the issue of the "Other Guy" was never an issue between them. Most of all, Tony wasn't afraid of him. That sort of implicit trust was a soothing balm for someone who never got close out of fear that the monster within would escape his control and hurt anyone dumb enough to be by his side. They spent a lot of time together, inventing together, working together, tinkering together. They'd had their moments apart (sometimes a lot of moments, weeks or months at a stretch), but when Tony was done with his latest life crisis or Bruce had completed his last guilt-ridden or fear-driven trip into self-exile in some remote part of the world, they always found each other again. There was a standing invitation at Stark Tower, and though Bruce had been reticent at first about staying some place _so visible_ in the middle of some place _so populated_, it didn't bother him so much anymore. Tony grounded him, and he needed it.

And Tony needed him, too. It was heartening, damn nice when he admitted it to himself. Extremis would have killed Pepper had it not been for Bruce's help in neutralizing it. And Extremis had finally "burned away" some of Tony's demons and allowed him to at long last remove the shrapnel from his heart and the arc reactor from his chest. Bruce had been instrumental in all of that, and he was secretly very proud that he had been.

"You're drifting again," Tony sing-songed from the other side of the desk. "You're a crappy listener. You know that, right."

Bruce rolled his eyes and went back to looking over his latest project on one of Stark's many holographic computer terminals. His last trip to India had inspired him to investigate the possibility self-sustaining plants given the region's level of famine and poverty. He'd seen too many people starving, too many children with no meat on their bones and swollen stomachs and dead eyes, to continue to turn a blind eye to it. Nothing any nation could do seemed to be enough to feed hundreds of thousands of poor families in the world, so Bruce had taken it upon himself to do what he could. Everything he had tried to this point, practicing medicine for those who couldn't afford it, offering to charity to everyone he could, had been like slapping a band-aid on a mortal wound. So he'd turned to science because that was what he did. And tying science into something he wanted to do made him only want to do it all the more, so he'd spent the last couple of weeks at Stark Tower, working on his newest endeavor.

But, unfortunately, he was reaching an impasse. His thought had been simple. Extremis conferred extraordinary resilience, unbelievable strength, the capability to veritably regrow damaged tissue. Its capabilities were not well studied, even, so there was theoretically no limit to what it could do. However, the side-effects were something of an (actually a _huge_) issue. Madness. Rage. Not to mention the heat and energy produced by the Extremis reaction with organic tissue that basically resulted in combustion of said tissue. Bruce had developed a way to neutralize that aspect of the chemical, but with that went a lot of its positive qualities. The preternatural strength. The regenerative abilities. Some of Extremis functioned even with the dampening qualities of the neutralizing agents, but not enough to create plants that bloomed and bore fruit indefinitely and were immune to age and disease. And when he lessened the amount of neutralizing agents, his plants went up in a small, sad ball of flame and smoke.

He had been trying to look over the latest round of data. His last tomato plant had survived a few days, sprouting some large and plump and promising fruit, before going the way of all the other plants. He was getting a little discouraged, frankly, and more than a little frustrated. The scientist in him knew that Extremis had a purpose, that maybe the rogue group Advanced Idea Mechanics (or AIM) had used it for evil but it could be fixed and redeemed. He probably should have given up, but he couldn't let it go. He and Tony were too alike in that regard. When they knew they were right, they'd do just about anything to prove it. Pepper called it being incorrigible. Tony called it being confident. Bruce just thought it was being a good scientist.

"Earth to Brucey," Tony called. "Houston, do we have a problem?"

"What? Oh. What were you saying?"

"I was saying that I think any marriage proposal I make to her is gonna blow up in my face. I said it about three times in fact." Tony pushed himself away from his work bench, his stool rolling across the floor as he reached for another piece of pizza from the box atop the adjacent bench. Food didn't really belong in a workroom, but Tony wasn't exactly the type to care about the rules. "She's expecting it now, and she likes things to be unexpected. Now how the hell am I supposed to deal with that kind of logic?"

"Oh. I dunno."

Tony rolled his eyes. "You're useless. How many times a day do you tune me out?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

"You need to get better at this whole listening thing."

"What I need is a stabilizing agent," Bruce answered, shaking his head and rubbing his chin at the latest sets of simulations on the screen before him. "None of this stuff I've tried has come even remotely close to working. It's all too weak."

Tony took a messy bite of his pizza, grumbling the whole time. "I could buy her anything, take her anywhere, but somehow she'll know what it's about right away. She's smart like that. So that leaves just _doing_ it in the middle of her brushing her teeth or something, but then she'll complain that it wasn't special enough. I'm screwed either way." Bruce narrowed his eyes and watched as the computer projected out how long his tomato plant might survive if he varied his lasted concoction of stabilizing chemicals. It was downright pathetic how insufficient everything he had was. "I don't even know why I'm asking you. The longest relationship you've had in months was with that plant, and you killed it."

Bruce sighed and dropped his head onto his folded forearms. "Back to the drawing table. Scratch another one off the list."

"How long is the list?"

"Short and getting shorter."

"It is possible, contrary to your hopes and dreams, that Extremis is just fundamentally a piece of shit. If they had been able to make it work, I wouldn't have had to fix it." At Bruce's withering look, Tony conceded. "_We_ wouldn't have had to fix it. Not that Killian and his band of morons were all that smart. Hell, I fixed part of the problem when I was fall-down drunk off my ass." Tony stuck a probe into the boot in front of him after stuffing the remains of his pizza into his mouth. "Letting it go wouldn't be so bad. You're starting to smell like scorched fertilizer."

"Your advice is, as always, much appreciated," Bruce dryly remarked.

"What I'm here for," Tony said with a patented shit-eating grin. "If your advice to me was half as awesome as my advice to you, I'd say this is an equal partnership."

Bruce sighed. Maybe Tony was right. He'd been turning this problem over and over again in his head and losing sleep over it and agonizing over it for weeks. He didn't like things he couldn't solve or even understand. He didn't like giving up, even if everybody thought he was mellow and malleable and unobtrusive. He was used to things coming easy to him, being obvious and readily apparent. Maybe it wasn't worth the frustration. It still surprised him sometimes that he was such a poor judge of what was deserving of his anger and what wasn't. But his baseline of "angry" had shifted so much in the last few years. "Look, I highly doubt she really cares how it happens so long as it happens. You're over-thinking this."

"Now that is the very definition of the pot calling the kettle black," Tony remarked.

Bruce gave him another long-suffering glare. "Pepper knows you love her, right?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I gave her a necklace made of shrapnel. It was a gift that literally came from my heart. If that doesn't say 'I love you', I don't know what does."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "If she knows you love her, it'll be fine. She'll be happy no matter how you ask her."

"Never pegged you for the romantic type," Tony said. He was deflecting, but Bruce could see his face relax just a little and a light of pride and relief come to his eyes. "Did the Hulk shrivel inside you even a little bit when you said that?"

If it had been anyone else, that would have bothered him. The mere mention of the "Other Guy" used to really set him on edge. But with Tony, it was just one of those things. Teasing and ribbing and testing were things that Tony just did. He fiddled with dangerous stuff just to see what would happen, not because he was cruel or malicious or self-destructive (well, not entirely because he was self-destructive). He pushed buttons to learn and stimulate and bring down walls and force things out in the open. It was the sort of no-holds-barred, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants approach to life that terrified him after his accident. Now it was just another thing on another day. "Just do us both a favor and propose already? You have been whining about this for weeks."

Tony had the decency to look somewhat affronted. "_Whining?_ I don't–"

"Sir." JARVIS' calm voice interrupted their conversation, echoing slightly in the spacious workshop around them. "Captain Rogers and Agent Barton are here."

Tony's face immediately tightened in frustration and irritation, and he set his tools down to the work bench with a clank. "No. Oh, no. Tell them no. No way in hell. I am done. No more. And I already explained to Fury that my consulting hours were–"

"They are already in the elevator and headed to you," JARVIS declared.

"On whose authority?" The doors to the elevator on the other end of the lab dinged and slid open. Tony sighed and sagged on his stool in defeat. "Betrayed by the only person I thought I could trust."

Pepper Potts was laughing at something as she stepped out of the lift. She looked positively radiant, dressed in an expensive black pantsuit and a white blouse. Her auburn hair was pulled into a loose bun, wisps and tendrils of orange falling loose to frame her pretty face. Her red lips were pulled into a sweet smile as she hung onto the arm of Steve Rogers. The soldier's affable grin slid away when he saw Tony. "Don't tell me you can't find yourself a date, Steve," Pepper said as they walked out into the lab. Obviously they had been catching up on the ride up through the tower. "I happen to know dozens of women who would fall over themselves for a chance to go out with you."

"I doubt that, ma'am," Steve stammered.

Pepper laughed again, refusing to let go of Rogers' arm as they strolled across the large room to the work area. "Sure they would! Don't be so modest. You're Captain America, for crying out loud. That's one in a million. Strong. Handsome. Wholesome." Steve actually blushed and was looking increasingly uncomfortable. "I'd be after you in a heartbeat if it weren't for Tony."

"What the hell? Rogers, first you invite yourself over and now you flirt with my girl?" Tony accused, standing from his stool.

Rogers winced and shook his head. Pepper smiled again. She was a shrewd woman, smart and beautiful and capable, and she didn't put up with anyone's nonsense, least of all Stark's. She removed her arm from the crook of Steve's elbow and walked over to Tony, her eyes gaining a mischievous twinkle. She wiped the grease from his goatee with a napkin she grabbed from one of the benches (naturally miles away from Tony himself) and then slid her arms around his neck. "No, no, babe. I'm flirting with him."

Next to Steve, Clint Barton groaned.

Pepper's face gained a harder edge. "And 'my girl'? That sounds pretty official, doesn't it? Something that official–"

Tony shook his head and pulled her away. "No way. You're in charge of everything else in my life, Potts. You're not in charge of this."

"Just a friendly reminder."

"Consider me reminded. You're making this impossible, by the way."

Pepper smiled. "I have meetings. Play nice with your friends." She gave Tony a quick peck on the cheek and then walked away, stopping beside Steve and Clint. "Thanks, Captain. Agent Barton."

Steve had his hands clasped together in front of him. He managed a grin and a nod. "Ma'am." All four men watched her stride back to the elevator and step inside it. Then the doors closed and she was gone.

"I think that is what we call lighting a fire under your ass," Barton said.

Tony sighed and plopped back down on his stool tiredly. He wasn't embarrassed; he didn't have the capacity to be embarrassed. He wheeled himself back over to his work. "Good to see you guys," he said, but his tone suggested he wasn't at all pleased with their sudden appearance. Tony glanced out of the corner of his eye toward the two men. Clint was dressed in black with a SHIELD jacket and a holstered gun on his hip. Bruce wondered how many other weapons the master assassin had hidden. Steve sported a new uniform that was dark blue and trimmed in silver with a gleaming gray star over his chest. He carried his shield on his back. "Nice threads. Definitely an improvement over the spangly outfit. To what do we owe this patriotic pleasure?"

Steve gave a humorless smile. It had been a while (almost a year?) since Bruce had seen him last. He looked strikingly different. More confident. More modern. His hair was shorter, his stature maybe a bit taller, the set of his face and the light in his eyes surer of his place in this new world. He looked every bit like Captain America, a living war legend and the leader of the Avengers. It would be a lie to say they knew anything about each other; despite working together to repel the Chitauri invasion, they were hardly more than acquaintances. The Steve Rogers he'd met before the Battle of New York had been sad, serious, and visibly suffering from being lost and presumed dead fighting HYDRA during World War II only to be found seventy years in the future. This Steve Rogers was still serious, at least, but calm and collected and grounded. Bruce had to admire that. Hell, Bruce admired a lot about him, if he could be honest with himself.

But they had no common ground between them, nothing beyond a few frantic minutes they'd shared together to save the city. And Steve intimidated him. Steve was the world's one and only super soldier, transformed from a sick, weak kid into one of the fastest, strongest, and smartest men on the planet. The serum that had performed this huge scientific feat back during World War II had been long lost, and no attempt to recreate it had been successful. Most, Bruce's own included, had ended disastrously. And it wasn't just that Steve was a reminder of how hellishly _wrong_ his work on the serum and Gamma radiation had gone. Steve was the symbol of _why _it hadn't worked. Steve was all parts valor and courage and kindness. He was the exemplar hero, strong in the face of injustice, noble and self-sacrificing, compassionate and true. He was everything that Bruce wasn't. One of the tenants of the super soldier serum was its ability to amplify everything within a man. With Steve, it had taken a frail boy's huge and powerful heart and turned him into a warrior for peace. A shield between the innocent and those who tried to harm them. With Bruce, it had taken his anger and arrogance and turned him into a monster. Steve represented a stark and undeniable truth: it hadn't been his science that had been so fatally flawed. It had been _him_.

That was somewhat difficult to come to terms with. Years later, he still hadn't.

Steve's face was very no-nonsense but not at all rattled, even by Tony's sarcasm. "We're here on behalf of SHIELD."

"Yeah. Got that part, Captain Obvious."

Bruce shook his head. Maybe Tony wasn't surprised, but he sure was. Especially since the last time he'd seen Steve talk about trusting SHIELD he had been condemning them over the HYDRA weapons he'd found aboard the helicarrier. "I wasn't aware you were working for them."

"Remember what I told you about needing to improve your listening skills?" Tony cocked an eyebrow. "And I thought you weren't marching to Fury's fife, Rogers."

Steve didn't react to the bait. He released a slow breath, his tall, muscular form deflating softly. "He asked me for my help a little while ago. I agreed so long as SHIELD stays true to what it's meant to do."

Tony grunted dismissively at that. "I'd count all the ways that's monumentally naïve, but we don't have all day. What national security goal brings you to me this time?"

"Believe it or not, we're not here to talk to you." Barton stepped up beside Rogers, tossing a USB thumb drive toward Stark. Tony caught it, a look of surprise shattering his previously nonchalant face. Clint turned and appraised Bruce evenly. He was even harder to read than Steve, a truly cool customer. Steve might have visibly changed, but Barton looked exactly the same as he had before. Confident. Guarded. As little as Bruce knew about Rogers, he knew even less about Hawkeye other than he'd spent the vast majority of the Chitauri mess under the control of a deranged demigod and thus playing for the bad guys. The man exuded deadliness with each and every stern look, including the one now stoically analyzing him. "We're here to talk to Doctor Banner."

The room was silent for a long minute. Bruce couldn't get his head around that at first. And when he did, something inside him, that little voice of warning that he'd learned to trust over the years, started chanting in his head that this was bad. "Me? What do you want with me?"

"Right now, just your help," Clint answered.

"Great. The last time Fury wanted my help most of midtown Manhattan was destroyed. You guys probably remember that."

"Nothing on that scale," Clint assured.

Tony jacked the USB drive into one of JARVIS' computer terminals, and a slew of data appeared. He reached into the holographic display and grabbed footage of a man giving a symposium at New York University on genetic engineering. Bruce recognized the face immediately, even before Tony brought up the SHIELD profile on him. "That's Dan Lahey. He and I were post-docs together at Culver…" A sinking sensation settled in the pit of his stomach. "What is it that you think he's done? Because whatever it is, he didn't do it."

"What makes you say that?" Steve asked, folding his impressive arms across his chest. It wasn't a manipulative question. He simply wanted Bruce's take.

But Bruce couldn't help but be defensive. "The guy's a mouse. Brilliant biochemist but pretty much a pushover. He had a chance to work on a grant for the CDC developing vaccines for some pretty serious stuff, anthrax and H1N1 and the like, but he refused because it would involve experimenting on animals. And not because he's a card-carrying PETA member or anything like that. He just didn't think he'd have it in himself to hurt a fly." Clint and Steve shared a quick look that Bruce couldn't read. He didn't appreciate the secrecy. He felt himself getting riled, so he drew a deep breath. "What's this about?"

"You're meeting with Lahey tomorrow, right?" Clint asked.

Bruce didn't like where this was going. "Yes? I don't see what that has to do with anything." When neither of the SHIELD agents said anything further, he got more irritated. "He invited me to his lab to consult on one of his projects. Tony was going to come with me."

"Yeah, I was going to go with him," Tony said.

"We know," Clint said. "We'd like for you to allow us to come as well."

"You know? How the hell could you know that?" Bruce asked. His patience was wearing thin, and he was feeling increasingly exposed. He never liked that feeling. "I suppose it's pretty damn naïve to think only the NSA is spying on my email. It's open season on American freedoms."

Clint shook his head. "SHIELD wasn't spying on you," he corrected. "A few weeks ago, Lahey received a rather large grant from NIH for some project supposedly based on studying the biochemical underpinnings of human emotion. That's what he called you to advise him on." Bruce nodded. Dan was a downright genius when it came to biochemical and genetic engineering. He'd excelled in his postdoctoral studies, quickly becoming a world-renowned expert on human cellular processes. But he'd never made much of himself after it became obvious that he had some rather… _unorthodox_ ideas, namely that human emotions could influence biochemical reactions. That human emotions could fundamentally alter chemical processes. Emotion was a rather subjective construct, one that was not easily or definitively or even _quantitatively_ measurable, so what he was proposing, while intriguing, was pretty much cast aside as nonsense. Or at least not feasible. It didn't help that the man had about as much social grace as a shy five-year old. At the time, Bruce had humored his friend's interest in the human psyche as a powerful influence of biology mostly because he'd become something of a social and scientific pariah and Bruce had felt bad for him. But even then he'd thought Dan's ideas were pretty far-fetched.

Since becoming the Hulk and having his own rage turn his body from human to monster, his opinions had changed somewhat.

"Look, ever since the mess with Aldrich Killian, SHIELD's been keeping closer tabs on the scientific community. Fury will never admit it, but the whole AIM incident caught him a bit by surprise. He's had people keeping an eye on the loner types in the world of biochemical, genetic, and weapons research, trying to catch the next nut job before he invents the next WMD or worse," Clint explained. "We've been monitoring Lahey's email. He showed up on the radar after getting this grant. It's big and it's not legitimate. Nobody at NIH remembers ever receiving a proposal from him for this type of research."

"Well, there are politics at NIH, you know," Bruce countered. "Science may be a pure endeavor for the betterment of humanity, but scientists are human, and humans need to eat and have roofs over their heads and tend to get swallowed up by their own agendas. Dan lost tenure at Culver a couple years back. Research takes money. After a while you don't worry so much where it comes from so long as it keeps coming."

Tony was still picking through the data. His brow furrowed in puzzlement. "I can see what tipped off Fury," he commented. A few waves of his hands brought up a visual representation of a chain of money and the people involved in transferring it that was quite a few layers deep, from Lahey through program directors at NIH through a senator or two to a trust that funded a think tank and finally to one Maya Hansen. "Damn, I guess she got around." Tony's voice was pinched in just a bit of hurt and betrayal. "AIM had its grubby fingers pulling a lot of strings."

Bruce looked at the graphical representation of a conspiracy. He didn't like it, but it sure seemed like Dan was possibly involved with the fringe scientific community. The sort that made serums to regenerate the human body from crippling or devastating injuries but really just resulted in rage, chaos, and destruction. The sort that kept trying to recreate the super soldier serum no matter how many times it failed and how many innocent lives were lost in the process. He wanted to deny it because this didn't feel right. And he didn't want to consider why Dan really wanted to see him if he was involved with AIM. "Just because he was getting money from AIM doesn't mean he was working for them. The sort of research Dan was interested in doesn't tend to get funded from respectable organizations."

"Too dangerous?" Steve asked.

"No," Bruce said. "Just too _out there_. I'm sure he didn't know where the money was coming from. For crying out loud, he works at the Hopkins Research Institute. They're–"

"Not dangerous," Tony supplied. "Not even sexy. That place is where ideas go to die."

"The most exciting scientific breakthrough coming out of there in the last five years involves fruit flies."

Steve sighed slowly. "Doctor Banner–"

"Bruce," Bruce corrected tiredly.

Steve winced. "Bruce. You're right. It's probably nothing. And you're right about Doctor Lahey; he hardly seems the type to be caught up in something like this."

Clint added, "The guy doesn't even have a parking ticket on his record."

"And Fury shouldn't have been spying on him without warrant or at least without cause and exigent circumstances. But he was, and now that this has come to our attention, we can't just turn a blind eye," Steve said. "Maybe he's legitimate but AIM is trying to target him, trying to turn him into another scientist serving their ambitions like Hansen was. Like you said, the promise of money and fame and notoriety, especially when you've been ridiculed for most of your career, is alluring."

"It wasn't to Dan. He couldn't have cared less what people thought. He cared about the science."

Steve glanced at Clint. "That may well be the case. If it is, let's keep it that way. Let us escort you to the meeting tomorrow."

Bruce felt a little off-put by this whole conversation, first that SHIELD thought his friend was capable of being influenced by evil (or doing evil himself) despite his assurances to the contrary, and second that SHIELD didn't trust him to handle it. "Dan knows who I am," he said, shaking his head. "And he already knows Tony is coming. You really think he's going to try anything with Iron Man and…" He still couldn't get used to saying it; it was a damn pathetic defense mechanism, like if he didn't quite admit to it, it would go away. "… the Hulk standing right there?"

"He'll be even less inclined with Captain America and Hawkeye there as well," Steve said. "And, no, I don't anticipate anything happening. I don't anticipate that having the Avengers there is at all necessary. Director Fury asked us to go with you to make SHIELD's presence known, both to Doctor Lahey and to anyone seeking to manipulate or coerce him. That's it."

"That's it?" Tony repeated doubtfully. "He just wants you to stand there and look threatening?"

Clint and Steve shared another look. Barton crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight slightly. "Pretty much."

"You have my word," Steve said.

Bruce grimaced before slumping slightly in defeat. "You're not going to take 'no' for an answer, are you."

But Steve surprised him. "Yes, I will. I don't march to Fury's fife." He darted an annoyed glance at Stark. "However, I'd appreciate it if you let us do what we were sent to do. If AIM or whatever is left of it is targeting your friend, he's in danger."

Bruce looked between Steve and Clint. Were it anyone else, he'd worry that that comment was meant to appeal to his worry, to stoke to life old feelings of friendship in order to manipulate him into agreeing. But he knew Steve Rogers wouldn't resort to lying or tricking him. He was too good for that. If he was promising something, he meant it with every ounce of loyalty and sincerity. Bruce looked over at Tony. The inventor cleared his workspace of the data on Dan from SHIELD and shrugged neutrally. "Your meeting."

Stark was positively useless sometimes. Bruce turned his eyes back to the two SHIELD agents before him. He had to admit that the evidence that something was not entirely right with Dan's work and funding was pretty compelling. If SHIELD's presence could ward off interested parties, maybe it would be worth it. It had been for him. SHIELD had kept the US military and who knew how many other groups (both good and bad) off his tail for years. Maybe he'd be doing Dan a favor.

"Okay," he said. He watched Steve and Clint share yet another look – what was this? Some sort of SHIELD silent communication? "Just keep your distance, okay? Dan's not… well, he spooks easily. And he asked me to help, so I don't want him to think…"

"Got it. Won't be a problem," Steve promised. He smiled genuinely for the first time during the conversation. "Tomorrow at four o'clock, right?"

"Yeah. You guys can't invite yourselves to dinner afterward, though," Tony said. "That's plain rude. Now skedaddle. We're doing science."

Steve nodded. If he was relieved or worried or happy or proud of himself or _whatever_, it wasn't obvious. Neither was Clint's reaction. The two of them were like statues. "Thanks, Doctor Banner. Mr. Stark." They turned and left.

When the elevator doors were safely closed, Tony groaned. "Some things never change," he grumbled. "That guy _still_ acts like he has an American flag, pole and all, stuck up his ass."

"I thought the two of you buried the hatchet after we saved the city."

Tony grabbed a probe and stuck it back into Iron Man's boot. "We did. Doesn't mean that I have to like him, though. What did Pepper say?" He did the worst impression of Pepper's voice imaginable. "So _strong_ and _handsome_ and _wholesome_." He fake coughed and covered his mouth dramatically. "Blargh. Think I puked in my mouth a little there."

"He seemed a good sport about it."

"'Course he did. The guy's a goddamn rock with a personality to match." That gave Bruce pause. He looked back at his laptop, idle and waiting for his commands. He stared at the simulations for his project, his _failed_ simulations because he couldn't find a powerful enough stabilizing agent. And then it occurred to him. But the idea was so crazy that he couldn't really digest it for a long moment, his eyes blank and his mind going a million miles a minute. "Oh, I know that look," Tony said. "That's the 'Eureka!' look. What is it?"

"A stabilizing agent," Bruce murmured. The corner of his mouth turned in a little smile. "The Holy Grail of stabilizing agents. The best one there is."

"Rogers?" Bruce nodded. Tony rolled his eyes. "You're dreaming now. Been there, done that. You know better than anyone that actually finding the Holy Grail would be easier than recreating the super soldier serum. Not to mention I'm pretty sure SHIELD would be on your ass faster than the Green Peace yuppies of the world would be on your super plants."

"Maybe I don't need to recreate it. Maybe I just need some of it. Steve's body makes its own supply. If I could just get a blood sample, just enough to try and confirm some of my hypotheses–"

Tony chuckled. "Good luck with that, Banner." At Bruce's downtrodden expression, he turned from his work again. His expression was a tad exasperated. "You know, I have this crazy idea. You could, I dunno, _ask_ him. He's Captain America. Saving children and curing world hunger falls under the job description."

Bruce grimaced. His brain had been running of its own accord, charging through the known chemical properties of the super soldier serum and relating them to the known problems with Extremis. These two chemicals were veritably polar opposites. Equilibrium versus radical amounts of uncontrolled energy. Self-sustaining versus fast-burning. Both conferred enhanced metabolism, constitution, power, and regeneration, but they did so in completely different ways. Could they really complement each other? Could the addition of the serum stop Extremis from destroying his plants before they could really bloom?

It didn't matter. It was a moot point. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I couldn't do that. It's just… It's not right."

"What? Asking him or fooling around with the very same thing that gave birth to tall, green, and deadly?"

Bruce winced sheepishly. Tony knew him too well. "Asking him."

"Well, then, I guess if God intended the world to have an endless supply of tomatoes, he would have made tomato plants a little more durable." An uncomfortable moment of silence crept by. Truth be told, this wasn't the first time an idea like this had occurred to him. Ever since learning that Steve had been found in the ice, he'd been wondering about it. The scientist in him hungered for answers, for a chance to poke and prod and analyze Steve to figure out why Project: Rebirth had succeeded and his own experiments had so horrifically failed. Sometimes he'd downright obsessed over it when the pain and anger had been too great to ignore. Sometimes he hungered for a cure so acutely that it was _all _he could think about. How he would do it. How he could extract the serum from Steve's blood and refine it and maybe, just maybe, reproduce it. But he'd never been able to bring himself to pursue answers to his questions. Part of it he knew was because he was too ashamed to have to ask Steve for anything, let alone something so private as unfettered access to his DNA and his cellular biology and his body. But when it really came down to it, it was a selfish reason. He was terrified of what he would find.

And everybody else seemed to have let it go. Since saving Captain America, nobody had asked Bruce for his opinion on restarting Doctor Erskine's work. Nobody had posited that investigating the situation would be beneficial. Nobody _good_, anyway. Not SHIELD or the United States government or the Avengers or Steve himself. He was the only one who couldn't entirely let it be.

Tony's voice cut through his uncomfortable thoughts. "You know, just because it didn't work doesn't mean it wouldn't have worked." Bruce glared at Tony; did he actually think that thought had never occurred to him before? "Maybe you used too much Gamma radiation. Maybe you miscalculated something. Rogers had my dad and a whole arsenal of scientists behind him. Hell, if you had had me with you–"

"I know, Tony."

"Just sayin'."

"I know."

Tony pursed his lips and appraised Bruce like he was some sort of flaw in one of his suits. Then he set his tools down. "Cheer up, Banner. I'm sure you have tons more combinations of uselessness and futility to keep you busy until you grow a pair of balls big enough to ask."

Bruce shook his head. "I'll grow a pair when you do."

Tony smiled. Bruce felt better seeing it for some reason. For the same reason he always did. "Harsh."

Well, even if the super soldier serum would work, he would need a lot more of it than just a few drops of blood. It really wasn't practical. So he put it out of his mind and went back to his projections and Tony went back to his tinkering.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER:** _Iron Man 3, The Incredible Hulk,_ _Captain America: The First Avenger,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Thanks for all the interest and support! A quick answer: this isn't a sequel to "The Right Call". I'm following (at least for the most part) the fact that the movies suggest the Avengers split up after _The Avengers_, hence why Tony is friendly with Bruce (as shown in _Iron Man 3_) and Steve is friendly with Clint (which makes sense, as they both work for SHIELD) but nothing beyond that. One of the things that this story is going to explore is the fact that Tony and Steve and Bruce and Steve aren't necessarily the best of buds and they don't know each other all that well. It's a slightly different take than I have done in the past, and hopefully I can pull it off.

Enjoy! :-D

**UNSUSTAINABLE**

**2**

The Hopkins Research Institute was located just off of Route 17 near Paramus, New Jersey. It was about a forty minute drive from Manhattan when traffic was decent, but they would be arriving in twenty-nine minutes if JARVIS' calculations were correct. It helped that Tony liked to drive fast (his Acura NSX could top 150 mph when he really pressed it, but speeding tickets were a pain in the ass, so he was sticking to a jaunty 70 in a 55). It also helped that he kept speeding up, trying to lose his tail. He was being just a tad bit childish, watching in irritation in the rearview mirror as Clint matched him and every weaving move he made in and out of traffic in the black SHIELD SUV behind him. It wasn't like he could really lose Barton; the guy had probably been trained in high speed pursuit, and this was nothing compared to that. But the sight of that black SUV following him was aggravating and setting him on edge. He didn't like being followed. He didn't like SHIELD. He didn't like SHIELD butting into his business (well, Bruce's business, but Bruce's business was becoming his business). He didn't like SHIELD manipulating people or lying to people or sticking its greedy, ambitious fingers where they didn't belong. He didn't mind Hawkeye too much; he hardly knew the guy beyond a few cracks he'd made about archery and elves back during the Battle of New York. He had a feeling that Clint could be a snarky, sneaky bastard if it suited him, and Tony respected that. But he didn't like Captain America.

He didn't like the fact that he and Rogers had fought on the helicarrier about Tony being worth nothing without Iron Man and Steve being special only because of the serum. He didn't like that he _still_ felt just a tad bit guilty about what he had said in a moment of scepter and stress-induced anger, and he didn't like that Captain Perfect had apologized first when it was all over. And it hadn't been a half-assed apology. It had been a genuine, sincere, "look, I was wrong and you really are a hero" kind of apology. That really grinded his gears. There was a heap of unresolved crap between them, not the least of which being that Steve had known Tony's father back in the day and held him in way higher esteem than Howard Stark deserved. And there was the little matter that Howard had been so intent on finding Captain America in the ocean along the Greenland ice shelf and then forming SHIELD to carry on SSR's legacy that he'd hardly had time for (or interest in) Tony. They both knew this sore spot was between them, but they were both content to let it fester because ignoring it was a hell of a lot easier than dealing with it. And their personalities (well, his – Steve didn't really have a personality) clashed so much that it was hard to see past their differences. Steve was pretty much the embodiment of everything Tony despised. Too noble and too naïve and too pure. Too no-nonsense and serious and quiet. Too flat and unchanging. A tool, pure and simple. Someone who followed orders without fail. Steve was the first and best hero, the one to which everyone else was measured, and he'd set impossibly high standards even before he'd sacrificed himself for the sake of humanity.

Of course, Steve hadn't really set those standards. And a lot of this was Tony's own insecurities if he could be honest with himself because no one had _ever_ asked him to be anything other than he was. He was Iron Man and proud of it. And he was damn good at what he did, at building and designing and inventing. Oh, and saving the world (he'd done that a few times now). He'd recently gotten himself through a very dark period in his life that had been filled with doubts and fears and panic and nightmares. He'd come through it stronger, no longer burdened by his past. He'd finally gotten the shrapnel out of his chest. He knew now more than ever that he was powerful, and he didn't need Iron Man to be a hero. He knew _he_ was the hero.

But nobody could really compare to Captain America, and that was a little annoying. Not a lot, but enough to bother him. And it more than a little annoying that Steve Rogers was the least arrogant man he'd ever met. He wore his humble beginnings and pure intentions on his proverbial sleeve. Tony hadn't seen Steve in a few months, not since his home in Malibu had been destroyed and he'd nearly lost Pepper and SHIELD had shown up fashionably late to an act of domestic terrorism so huge and extreme that he wondered how the hell they could have failed to see it coming and still have the balls to call themselves spies. Steve had been there at the hospital trying hard not to seem concerned about him, but Tony had seen the worry in his eyes and the regret that he hadn't been there to help. He'd freaking _apologized_ for being on assignment out of the country. He was distant and maybe a little cold, but he'd _meant_ it, and that was just too damn much. Nobody should be so _good_.

Tony glanced in the rearview mirror again. Steve and Clint were talking amiably. They were both _smiling_, like really smiling. Smiling like friends. That bothered him just a little bit, too. He'd never really thought that the rest of the Avengers might go on without him when they'd parted ways last year. That some of them might even become friends without him. Tony liked to know everything and to be involved with everything. "They have some super spy bromance going on or something," he remarked. Steve laughed at something Clint said. He'd never seen Steve laugh before. "Bonding over science is way cooler than bonding over… whatever it is they have in common. Besides being Fury's lap dogs." Did he sound jealous? _Bullshit. I'm not jealous._

Bruce didn't say anything. He had been distracted since the day before. Tony didn't like it when Bruce got distracted. It inevitably led to brooding and withdrawn pessimism. Not that Tony could blame him. They all had their demons (hell, the whole fiasco with the Mandarin had taught him plenty about that, too). But Bruce's weren't the sort that could be easily overcome, if they could even be beaten at all. Granted, since turning the Hulk into an instrument for defense rather than destruction, since becoming an Avenger, Bruce's outlook had improved drastically. He'd been shown undeniably that there was the capacity for good in the monster. Also, he wasn't so nervous or guarded or angry about his condition. He was calm and a lot more accepting. He talked more about himself, and he talked about the future with hope in his eyes and voice. Tony had expected Bruce Banner to be a man driven to find a cure, but he wasn't. At least not anymore. Tony liked to think he had had a large part in that. He really enjoyed having Bruce around, in fact. Bruce didn't put up with crap, but he wasn't judgmental about it. And he was a great sounding board.

Tony wasn't sure exactly what was bothering Bruce. This situation with his old colleague. His failed experiments. The usual misery that went hand-in-hand with being a real life Jekyll and Hyde. Whatever it was, Bruce had had the personality of a wet sponge for the last day and he was getting tired of it. "So your old buddy from Culver…"

"Dan." Traffic slowed in front of them as they pulled off Route 17.

"Right. Not that I don't believe you, because I do, but is there a chance he's gone over to the Dark Side?"

Bruce looked at him, though not in anger. A grimace broke his face. As much as they didn't like SHIELD, it was difficult to dismiss them. SHIELD had an intelligence network that was huge and powerful and well-funded. And maybe their methods were suspect, but Tony had to admit that SHIELD's intentions were good. They'd have to be to get Captain America to work for them. So that meant that, as much as Bruce maybe wanted to deny his friend was involved in something illegal, there was a distinct possibility it was true. "I haven't talked with him in five years," Bruce admitted. "Does seem kinda strange that he'd contact me out of the blue."

Tony stepped on the clutch and put the sports car into gear. Now they were driving through a nice suburban area, complete with street trees adorned in lush summer foliage and pretty flower beds and quaint houses. Hardly seemed like the area one would find a super villain. "Yeah," he agreed. "Could just be a coincidence, though. Maybe he saw the Hulk's handiwork back during the fight with Loki and wanted to get together to reminisce about your academic days."

"A year after the fact?" Tony shrugged, but even he had to concede it sounded stupid. Bruce sighed. "I didn't want to tell you this before, but I think he wants to see me because he's working with Gamma radiation." Well, that explained some things. Tony didn't like where those things were going. Gamma radiation had been responsible for and involved with quite a few disasters, the Hulk being one of them and the Tesseract another. It was dangerous and deadly stuff. Only Doctor Erskine back in 1943 had managed to harness its power into a successful experiment. Even today, no one was sure how he had done it. Bruce sighed again. "Look, he was always interested in the interaction between human emotion and biology. He had this crazy theory that thoughts and feelings could fundamentally alter chemical processes, and he thought that maybe this could account for some of the stranger things in life. Telepathy and telekinesis and–"

"People turning into giant green rage monsters when they get angry?"

Bruce winced again. "Yes. And I'm worried that's why he wants to see me. He wants my input. He didn't say in his email, but the last time I saw him, he was talking about using Gamma rays to stimulate cellular growth and mutation during certain emotional states. It sounds insane, I know. But we've seen weirder."

Gods and spaceships descending from distant planets? Men frozen alive for seventy years and surviving like it was nothing? Nigh unstoppable fire zombies and hordes of alien invaders and giant, floating Leviathans laying waste to Manhattan? "I guess anything's possible."

"I just…" Bruce looked uncomfortable and embarrassed but not so much as to ignore his own flaws. "I need you there to keep me in check. You know how it is when you get involved in something. The problem ropes you in until you're in way deeper than you thought you were and you want to stop but you can't until you solve it." Tony did indeed know how that was. He had some of his best ideas when he was in way too deep. When responsibility and common sense fell to the wayside in pursuit of an answer. Problem-solving was what he did. He thrived in complexities, in the quest for truth, in the thrill of figuring something out. It was more stimulating, more rewarding, and more addictive than any drug or money or sex or _anything_. The drive to understand was what made him so awesome an inventor. And it was what made Bruce so brilliant a scientist. Bruce offered him the hint of an ashamed, knowing smile. "You're not the only one who screws around with things until they blow up in your face. I can't take those chances anymore, good or bad."

Tony wasn't sure he wanted this burden. He'd take it up, of course, but it was a huge one and it was more than a little unnerving. "Sure."

"And if he's messing around with Gamma rays, we need to make him stop before he hurts himself or someone else. Or before someone else gets to him." Bruce shook his head and met Tony's gaze firmly. "People listen to you."

Tony was a tad flattered at that, even though he knew it was true. He tended to be a rather polarizing person. There weren't too many people who were ambivalent about him. But he was wealthy and influential and intimidating and a genius; that carried a lot of clout, especially with those who were meek and maybe a tad submissive and misguided, and this Lahey guy sounded that way.

They turned off to a smaller road. It was becoming slightly more wooded, the residential and business areas falling away. A few minutes later they pulled up to a gate surrounding a large, white, nondescript building. The Hopkins Research Institute looked about as exciting on the outside as the discoveries coming out of it were. Tony rolled down the window of his car. Inside there was one security guard who was busy playing with his phone. "Name."

"Tony Stark and Bruce Banner. Here to see Daniel Lahey."

The young man looked over from his phone slowly, his eyes widening. Tony inwardly groaned; he didn't really want to deal with a fan right then. Adulation and adoration were great and all, but even he was getting tired of the media attention he always got. "Oh my God! You're Iron Man! And he's the Incredible Hulk! Oh my God!"

"And behind us, in case you're wondering, is Captain America and Hawkeye." Might as well let the cat of the bag now. It would be hard not to notice anyway, with Steve's ridiculously obvious uniform and shield and Clint looking like someone straight out of a _Mission: Impossible_ movie.

"Oh, wow! Wow! This is… Oh my God! Do you mind if a get a picture?"

Bruce winced. "Uh, yes. Please don't. It's fine. We don't need–"

But it was too late. The kid was already snapping frantic images with his phone's camera. Bruce shrunk down in his seat a little. Tony smiled wanly. "Just easy on the Instagram, okay? My cyber-stalkers are starting to freak me out."

The guy blushed. "Oh, right. Totally. I know, Mr. Stark. I promise I won't post it anywhere."

"Well, not mine. Feel free to post pictures of Captain America wherever you want. He's cool with it." Steve probably had no idea what Facebook or Instagram or Twitter or any of that was (well, Tony liked to think he didn't because the idea of Captain America having a Twitter account was pretty disturbing).

The security guard continued to stare, awe-struck and slack-jawed, shocked into stupefied catatonia. "Really? That's, uh… really? Captain America's back there?"

Tony smiled again. "In all of his glory. Now could you let us through? You know, if it's not too much trouble. Things to do and all."

"Oh. Oh, right! Yeah, of course. Have a good evening, Mr. Stark!"

The gate slowly opened and Tony pulled through, but not before looking behind him to make sure their fan was properly accosting the SHIELD SUV. He smiled smugly, pleased with himself, as he followed signs to a parking garage attached to the building. Bruce shook his head in disapproval, but his brown eyes were alight with amusement all the same. "You're an ass."

"What? They wanted to be visible, so now they are."

"I don't think that's what they had in mind." They pulled into the parking garage, which was mostly empty considering people were leaving for the day. Honestly, Tony wasn't too thrilled with parking his expensive race car in a place like this where door dings or worse were probably a common occurrence (and for God's sake – he was Tony Stark. He never parked anywhere without valet). But it was what it was. They found a spot reserved for visitors and pulled into it. A moment later, the SHIELD SUV parked beside them.

The sound of car doors opening and closing echoed loudly in the garage. Clint and Steve were in the middle of a conversation as they joined Bruce and Tony in walking toward the bridge toward the main building. "What the hell is a twitter?" Steve asked, his jaw set and his eyes narrowed. He didn't look happy, like he'd been manhandled into doing something he didn't want but was too damn polite to refuse. Tony couldn't help but feel immensely pleased with himself; nothing was more gratifying than seeing the great Captain America all hot and bothered. "And I suppose you're the one who told that guy that it was okay to take my picture."

"Gotta put on a little show for the fans every once in a while," Tony answered. He took off his sunglasses and stuck them in the pocket of his blazer. "You oughta know something about that. You used to sing and prance around all the time before you found your manhood."

Steve actually blushed again. This was twice in 24 hours. Tony thought embarrassment was a good color on him. "Hilarious," he muttered.

"You know, I'm always looking for dancers for the Stark Expo. Every year I go for the female variety, but I think people are getting tired of the same old, same old. I'm an equal-opportunity employer and if Pepper's to be believed, which she usually is, women are fawning all over themselves to have their way with you. Right, Cap? So _strong_ and _handsome_ and _wholesome_."

Steve flushed, this time with anger, and his gloved hands clenched into fists at his side. This was why Tony didn't work well with others. He had an incredibly irritating propensity to piss everyone off, and usually he was pretty damn proud of it. Barton was fast, diffusing the situation with a sharp glance at Tony and then at Steve. "Knock it off."

"Remember what Pepper said about playing nice?" Bruce reminded him quietly.

"I _am_ playing nice," Tony insisted. He rolled his eyes at Steve's hurt and irate expression. "It was a joke, Rogers. Geez. Lighten up. And by the way, you two look like the Gestapo." While he and Bruce were dressed casually, the two SHIELD agents were all business, Steve in his uniform with his shield on his back and Clint exactly the same as he had been the day before. Tony was starting to wonder if they ever changed. It also didn't escape his notice that Clint was armed. Somebody less perceptive might not have seen the holster under his jacket and the handgun secured in it. He really wished that Bruce would have just turned Rogers down. Iron Man was tucked into the trunk of his car, and he could summon the suit to him through freaking concrete if necessary in a matter of seconds. They didn't need protection or SHIELD posturing or whatever. Having them here was a huge imposition.

Maybe Bruce was right and this Dan Lahey guy had flooded the area with ESP-inducing radiation because Clint seemed to share the exact same sentiments at the exact same time. "This is a huge imposition, having you here. This is a courtesy to Doctor Banner, Stark. So keep your bullshit to yourself. We're getting in there, looking around, making sure Lahey is legit and otherwise uncompromised, and then we're done. End of story." He looked disarmingly at Bruce. "No offense, doc."

Bruce didn't seem inclined to come to Tony's defense, raising his hand and nodding dismissively, which probably meant he should dial back his asshole tendencies. They reached the glass doors of the entrance. Steve pulled one open and held it for them as they stepped through. The soldier seemed to have reclaimed his composure, offering Tony a curt nod. _Play nice,_ Tony thought angrily. He could reel in his irritation and dislike of SHIELD for one night. Couldn't he?

There was a nondescript circular desk in front of them. They were coming in through a side entrance into a fairly large and nicely decorated lobby. The bland exterior of the building hadn't suggested anything this elegantly furnished. Tony was frankly surprised. He'd read about this place off and on over the years, and it had always seemed like a haven for nerds and dweebs, the sort who showered once in a blue moon and lived in their parents' basements until they were forty and had never kissed a girl who wasn't related to them and couldn't function normally in an environment not filled with other nerds and dweebs. This was shockingly professional-looking, with sleek metal stairs and expensive looking tile and carpet and a real waiting area adorned with furniture not made of plastic. They even had artwork.

Bruce stepped up to the desk. He was trying not to look rattled, but Bruce _always_ looked rattled, especially in new and unfamiliar situations. "I'm Bruce Banner, here to see–"

"Bruce!" A man was making his way across the lobby. He was dressed in nice slacks and an expensive dress shirt, neatly pressed and form-fitting. He had a red and silver silk tie and genuine leather shoes. He looked to be in his middle forties with sleek brown hair that was a little on the long side but meticulously brushed and well kept. He smiled widely, revealing two rows of perfectly straight, obnoxiously white teeth. He was well-groomed and fairly good-looking, not at all the rumpled, messy, mad scientist Tony had pictured. Tony had done his homework last night, ordering JARVIS to go through Lahey's history and report it to him. SHIELD's intel wasn't wrong. Lahey had been nothing, a scientist with no major breakthroughs attached to his name since the early days of his career at Culver. His papers were published in low-impact journals, and his conclusions were deemed suspect. Tony wasn't enough of an expert in the field to know if they really were groundless; bias existed in science, and he knew that unpopular or difficult concepts were often met with disdain no matter how accurate they were. Nobody took Lahey seriously, even though by all rights he seemed a sharp, smart man with the potential to be a leading force in biochemistry. His insistence on these fringe theories had ostracized him, and Bruce had been right about it: he hadn't seemed to care. He had blinders on. He never guest-lectured. He never attended conferences. He turned down positions and opportunities, serious opportunities that could have garnered him acceptance. He had been holed up this place, hiding from accolades as much as he was hiding from ridicule, totally content to just work unbothered. His quest for his own Holy Grail had turned a promising career into a joke. There was being narrow-minded, and then there was being plain stupid. Obsession had ended many a career.

But this guy in front of him wasn't at all what he'd expected. What had Bruce called him? A mouse? A pushover? He didn't seem that way.

Bruce obviously had been expecting someone else, too. "Dan?"

Lahey nodded as he stopped in front of their group. He held out his hand, and Bruce took it. "Good to see you!"

"Yeah. Likewise." Bruce's eyes were wide and he rubbed his other hand over his shortly cropped hair, visibly flummoxed. Tony didn't know if that was a good or bad thing. Then Bruce seemed to remember he had other people with him and leapt to introduce them. "This is Tony Stark. Tony, Dan Lahey."

A manicured hand was confidently jutted toward him. That million-watt smile was back, carrying up to cool and confident brown eyes. Most people were at least a daunted when they met Tony Stark, maybe even a little awe-struck. But Lahey was neither. "It's a pleasure, Mr. Stark. You have no idea what an honor it is to have an engineer of your caliber grace our little institute."

Tony didn't want to seem strange, but he was too taken aback to respond with anything other than a mild "sure". Lahey released his hand and turned to his other two guests. Bruce smiled and gestured to them. "And this is Agent Clint Barton and Captain Steve Rogers. They're here on behalf of SHIELD."

Lahey bypassed Clint's hand like it wasn't there and went straight for Steve's. He seemed extremely surprised and increasingly elated. "Steve Rogers? As in Captain America? That Steve Rogers?"

Steve looked uncomfortable as he shook the other man's hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Wow. I mean, of course you are! Just look at you. Wow. I can't tell you what this means to me." A peek of that flustered, socially inept person Bruce had described before suddenly poked through the smooth and confident façade. Lahey's eyes light up like a kid in a candy store as he rigorously pumped Steve's hand. "You know, I got a hold of Doctor Erskine's notes on the super soldier serum experiment back in grad school. I wrote my thesis on the hypothetical infusion rates of the serum through the sarcolemma of myocytes and how the serum could have impacted mitochondrial output. Right down to mitotic rates… Seeing it in the flesh, though… It's really magnificent."

Steve looked like he hadn't understood a word of that. He probably hadn't. "Thanks."

"No, thank _you_. Really." Steve was uncomfortable with the reverence, slipping his gaze to Clint who was trying to be stony but couldn't entirely quash his amusement.

Tony found the whole thing downright disturbing, though, and not just because Lahey _still_ hadn't let go of Steve's hand. "Yup. It's awesome." He took Lahey's arm and pulled him away, rolling his eyes over his shoulder at Rogers and Barton. "So, Dan, mind if I call you that? I thought you had stuff to show us. You called us for our opinions, right, genuine scientific opinions from genuine scientific geniuses."

That seemed to snap Lahey from his fanboy stupidity. "Right. Sorry about that. Where are my manners? Doug, buzz us through, huh?" The security guard behind the desk nodded, and Lahey led them through the double doors on the other end of the lobby. They walked down a long, spacious corridor, Bruce and he with Lahey and Steve and Clint behind them.

Lahey's gait was unhurried. "So how have you been, Bruce?"

It was a logical thing to ask, especially since the two colleagues hadn't seen each other in some time. But Bruce seemed somewhat taken aback by it as though caring about social propriety and customs wasn't typical of his friend. He stuffed his hands into his pants, glancing at rooms as they passed them. They were simply conference rooms and offices filled with desks, computers, and clutter. Tony could tell he was nervous. Bruce had various stages of nervous. This was more than baseline anxiety, and it tempered Tony's mood. "Fine," he answered.

"Things been going well for you? I mean, since New York."

"Well enough. I should ask you the same question. You seem… different," Bruce remarked. Lahey shot him a hurt glance. "Not that that's a bad thing."

They stopped in front of an elevator. Lahey flashed his ID badge to the scanner mounted on the wall beside the door. "Money changes a man," he answered like that could explain what seemed to be a radical personality shift. Money could certainly do that. So could power and fame and dozens of over things. But Tony found more often than not that the fundamental nature of a man was immutable. A man could open his eyes to things he'd ignored or a man could close them to things he didn't want to see, and a man could try and change his ways, but the inclination to be good or bad, evil or pure… He was pretty sure that was innate. Maybe that was naïve, but the superhero business fared better in the world of black and white (as much as he disliked Rogers' view of things), and it did make labelling the bad guys easier. He liked figuring out mechanical problems and broken code that wouldn't compile and bugs in his inventions… He liked pounding that stuff out and flexing his incredible mental muscles. He didn't like having to figure people out.

Lahey was still talking. "The old me wasn't very good at schmoozing people."

Bruce laughed at that. It sounded forced. The doors to the elevator opened and their small group stepped inside. "I don't think any of us were."

"Well, not anybody who could call himself a scientist and mean it. Remember Chuck Kiss-ass?"

At the others' confused glances, Bruce supplied the story. "Chuck Kizance. He was an astrophysics post-doc at Culver. Used to be friends with Selvig, actually."

Lahey looked amused and disgusted at the same time, but he was making a show of it like he needed to prove to them (or himself) that he was worlds better. "The guy was a substandard scientist but an A+ brown-noser. He weaseled his way onto any grant he could as a 'significant contributor' or 'consultant'. If there was a butt to be kissed, he found it and puckered up. Got the Dean of the University to give him tenure somehow. Is he still there?" Lahey asked.

Bruce shrugged. "Not sure. Probably."

Lahey selected the lowest floor of the structure, three below the ground floor. A sinking feeling of foreboding settled in Tony's stomach, and it wasn't just because the elevator was dropping at what felt like too fast a speed. Lahey smiled innocently. "Unfortunately, he was right about one thing. Schmoozing seems to be the only way to get anywhere. The ideas don't matter so much. Integrity? BS. Look at Apple or Facebook or any number of corporations selling people overpriced stuff they don't need or services that provide no service at all. Money finds its way to the beautiful people, to the people who can make themselves look good and marketable. The rich get richer. Right, Mr. Stark?"

Did this guy seriously just insult him? _What the hell?_ The silence in the elevator was downright thick for a second as Tony tried to digest the fact that this peon, this _nobody_, had tried to take him down a notch. He opened his mouth to retort, but something grabbed his wrist. He jolted a bit and looked to his left and saw Steve standing close to him, gripping his hand like iron, shaking his head slightly. His blue eyes were narrowed with understanding but also with a vehement, silent plea that he let it go. Normally Tony wouldn't have restrained himself, least of all for Rogers, but this whole thing was so damn off-putting that he shut his mouth and tried not to stew too much. "Yep," he agreed. "So this money that changed you… Who did you have to schmooze to get it?"

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. A narrow, long, gleaming hallway stretched before him, the tiles polished and the walls a bland color of taupe. No windows, of course, since they'd descended into the basement. It was downright claustrophobic. "NIH. Finally hit the lottery there. I guess persistence does eventually pay off."

Tony was becoming increasingly certain that that wasn't true, that SHIELD was right to be concerned about this guy. Maybe he wasn't bad, but he veritably oozed instability. The sort that easily bent to the whims of the criminally insane, at least. "You guys said you were with SHIELD?" Lahey asked. It was impossible to tell what he thought of that from his tone. He didn't seem threatened or bothered or even surprised.

"That's right," Clint said as they walked down the hall. They passed lab rooms filled with workstations and computers and benches overloaded with test tubes and vials and pipettes and other equipment. They were all empty.

"Why is SHIELD interested in me? Not that that's a problem. Just curious."

"SHIELD is always interested in what's happening in the scientific community," Clint coolly answered.

Lahey's eyes widened in excitement, and he couldn't keep the smile off his face. That kid-at-Christmas look came back quickly. "Is this because of the Extremis incident? Because I gotta tell you: I would _love_ to get my hands on some of that stuff. The possibilities are endless."

The Extremis incident wasn't common knowledge. President Ellis being kidnapped and nearly murdered and the corruption concerning the Vice President were, of course, but the involvement of AIM and Extremis itself had not been made available to the media. Rhodey had told him the fall-out in the military from the whole Mandarin mess was widespread, and the efforts to contain the consequences were in full-swing. SHIELD knew, of course. Tony had been dragged before Nick Fury and Maria Hill and Jasper Sitwell and some guy named Alexander Pierce to recount what had happened the morning after his Iron Legion had taken out Killian and his horde of Extremis soldiers. He could think lowly of SHIELD all he wanted, but he knew they were damn good at keeping secrets. How the hell had this guy found out about Extremis?

Steve was thinking the same thing. "The existence of Extremis is classified," he said. His eyes were guarded. "How did you learn about it?"

"Internet," Lahey answered neutrally. "Does SHIELD know there are resistance groups out there dumping secrets out to the public? Ever heard of the Rising Tide?" Tony hadn't and made a mental note to have JARVIS research it later. It wasn't relevant, at any rate. "Ask them how they found out."

Clint was tired of this game. "Where did you get your funding?"

"NIH. I said that."

"Are you aware that your grant from NIH is bogus?"

Lahey's expression was again unreadable. Bruce looked perplexed, like Lahey had been the worst poker player in the history of poker but had somehow managed a perfect, deadpan, indecipherable poker face. "No. What do you mean by 'bogus'?" He suddenly seemed suspicious, well after the fact that Tony would have been. Four Avengers, two of which worked for the world's largest covert security agency, had shown up in his lab, and only now the man was wary. "What do you guys want? I asked Bruce to come, and I don't mind Mr. Stark – an intellect of his magnitude is always welcome. But with all due respect I'm not interested in having SHIELD prying into my work."

They reached the end of the hallway and stopped outside another set of double doors. These were thicker, designed to be difficult, if not impossible, to force open. Blast doors. They as well were secured by a scanner and a keypad. "We're not trying to pry," Steve said. His tone was calm in response to Lahey's distrust. "We're just interested in making sure you're aware that SHIELD is watching you."

Lahey's face tightened in anger. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

The situation was escalating rapidly. Bruce stepped between Steve and his friend. His face was placid but his eyes were tense. "Look, Dan, take it easy. They're not accusing you of anything. If someone's bribing you or coercing you or threatening you… they can help. Having SHIELD looking over your shoulder isn't always a bad thing. It's been okay for me." Bruce darted a pleading glance at Tony. "And it has been for Tony, too."

Lahey glanced among the four of them, and a moment of silence escaped. It looked as if he was debating going any further. The tension in the air was palpable. Then he sagged slightly and seemed almost weary. Defeated. Tony couldn't help but think that maybe AIM or someone worse really was threatening the guy. He looked like he wanted to unburden himself. He looked desperate. "Bruce, I don't want to get into trouble. I just want to be left alone so I can work, you know?"

"I know."

"I just… I want your help with something."

Bruce clasped Lahey on the shoulder, and that was saying something considering how much he typically disliked physical contact with other people. "I know. I'm here to help you."

Lahey pressed his ID badge to the scanner and slid his fingers alone the touch screen of the key pad. The locks disengaged with a heavy clank. The doors swung open to a dozen men with shotguns, handguns, and rifles pointed at them. Tony took a step back in shock, his eyes widening and his heart leaping to a frantic pace. He felt more than saw Clint move behind him, swiftly drawing his gun from his jacket and pointing it at the slew of guards in front of him. At the pounding of feet behind them Steve turned, dropping into a defensive stance to face more guards approaching from the rear. He pressed tightly to Tony's back. "Oh, shit," Tony whispered.

"I hate it when I'm right," Clint muttered, narrowing his eyes into a cold and deadly glower. They were outnumbered five to one.

Lahey turned around to face Bruce. "Sorry," he said. He seemed genuinely apologetic, maybe ashamed that it had come to this. "But I really do need you." Bruce was breathing heavily. His hands were balled into fists at his side. Tony felt his lungs lock up in his chest as Bruce's eyes shifted, growing greener and greener by the moment. "And I need you to keep the monster in the cage."

Lahey reached into his own lab coat and pulled out a gun. The sound of thunder echoed down the hallway, loud and violent. It took Tony a minute to realize it was the gun firing. It took him even longer to realize that Lahey had shot someone. And it took even longer still for him to realize that Lahey had shot _him_.

Once he came to understand it, really let it sink in, there was pain. _A lot _of pain. He pressed his hand to his stomach without thinking to, and when he looked down in shock and alarm, he found his fingers covered in slick and sticky red. "That's not good," he whispered.

He really couldn't say or do anything else. Everything was spinning and something disgusting came up his throat. It tasted an awful lot like blood. The pain knocked his legs out from under him and he went down hard. Somebody caught him. Somebody was calling his name. It sounded like Steve. Steve was holding him, shaking him. Telling him to hang on. Ordering him to.

He'd never been very good at following orders. That was another reason he and Steve didn't get along. The blackness came in, harsh and hungry, and he let go.


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER:** _Iron Man 3, The Incredible Hulk,_ _Captain America: The First Avenger,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Special thanks to Chikara-san for pointing out that Tony does in fact drive himself around a lot. Fixed that in chapter 2.

Little warning for the squeamish: there are some descriptions of blood and things in this chapter. Nothing beyond the rating.

**UNSUSTAINABLE**

**3**

"Don't do it, Bruce," Lahey warned. The muzzle of the gun was smoking but unwavering as he kept it firmly aimed on Tony's body. At this close range, a shot to the head would be deadly and too fast to prevent. "Don't. I can kill him before you can kill me, and don't think I won't. But I don't want to. Please, Bruce."

Bruce wasn't listening. His chest was heaving, his hands squeezing into fists at his sides, his skin turning sickeningly green. He was losing himself, and the Hulk was threatening. He was losing control.

Steve couldn't let that happen. There were a dozen guns trained on Tony and Clint; at point blank range, neither he nor Bruce would be able to move fast enough to protect their friends from being killed. No matter how fast and strong the Hulk was, he couldn't outrun a bullet. In these close confines, there was no room to fight. "Doctor Banner," Steve called. He tried to keep his voice calm and controlled despite the fear pulsing through his body. "Doctor Banner." Bruce didn't move, didn't turn, didn't even look away from Lahey. His face was a picture of wrath, contorted and twisted with barely restrained rage. Tony groaned in Steve's embrace, pale and rasping for breath, his eyes tightly closed in agony. Steve pushed one gloved hand as tightly as he dared over the bleeding gunshot wound in Stark's abdomen and reached the other toward Bruce. He latched onto the physicist's arm and held firmly. "Bruce."

Furious eyes, green and malignant, shot toward him. Despite the rage simmering in that hateful glower, Steve wasn't afraid. He couldn't be. Bruce tried to pull away as though his touch was painful or repulsive, but Steve was too strong and too determined to be shrugged off so easily. Now that he'd succeeded in getting Banner to look at him, he held steadfast. He could feel Bruce's heart pound beneath his fingers where they were wrapped around the other man's wrist. He could see each charged breath, each thread of Bruce's control unraveling under the immense strain of holding back. He prayed his own strength would be enough to convince the Hulk to stay inside. "Stay with us, Bruce. Please," Steve softly said. "Tony needs you."

That was enough. In a blink, Bruce's brown eyes were back, weak and uncertain at first. But then they fell upon Tony's bleeding body and _focused_. Uncaring of the multitude of guns aimed at them, he dropped to a crouch beside Steve. "God," he whispered, his gaze widening and his face paling further at the horrific sight before him. He turned a blazing glare upon Lahey. "You want my help? You let me help him first."

Bruce's words allowed no room for argument, no chance for debate. Steve held his breath, praying that Lahey would agree. Tony was hemorrhaging badly, his skin waxy with shock. He was shivering and Steve could feel his heart racing. Blood slipped from the side of his mouth as it flooded his throat. Steve propped him up further and tipped him to help drain it. He had seen more than his fair share of gunshot wounds during the war and his time with SHIELD. He knew a bad one when he saw one. This was a _very _bad one.

Lahey watched Tony suffer uncaringly for a long moment, a seeming eternity of doubt and anger. Steve gritted his teeth and held Tony tighter. Stark wasn't going to die in his arms. He wouldn't let that happen. It was in Lahey's best interests to make sure it didn't. Steve had a sinking suspicion that the scientist needed Tony to keep Bruce and himself in line. If Tony died, there would be no incentive for Banner to keep the monster in check. And Lahey, frankly, had _no _idea what Captain America could do when his back was up against a wall. "Alright," Lahey said. He nodded toward the soldiers, and they backed away ever so slightly. The guns never lowered or faltered in their deadly aim, however.

Steve didn't wait for further permission. He stood in one smooth, powerful motion, lifting Stark in his arms and roughly pushing through the soldiers. He kept Tony shielded against his chest as he charged through the line of men. Bruce was right behind him. "Not you," Lahey ordered. Clint stopped short, surrounded and separated from them by the guards. Gun barrels were shoved in his face. His own remained unchangingly pointed at Lahey despite the threat around him. Clint was never daunted. "Drop the gun. Hands on your head."

Steve glanced over his shoulder and met Clint's gaze. They'd become so attuned to each other from the many missions they'd worked together over the last year that a single glance was all he needed to tell the other agent to be still. Clint wasn't pleased, as tense as a coiled spring, but he stood down. The situation was intractable, and for now they needed to cooperate or Stark would die. He set his weapon to the floor and raised his hands, his eyes dark with helpless anger. The guards roughly searched him, and another man approached with a zip tie.

Somebody yanked Steve's shield off his back. Steve stiffened, struggling to keep his emotions controlled. Any sudden movement could get them killed. And any sign of panic could incite the Hulk. Steve liked and trusted Bruce; he seemed to be a genuinely nice guy, a veritable genius, shy and maybe a little anxious but wise and unimposing and friendly. Steve couldn't be sure, however, how well he had the Hulk under control. Shooting Tony was a double-edged sword. It was evil of the worst sort to use an innocent man's life as leverage, but it was worse still to play a game as deadly as this with no assurances that this plan to hold the monster in by appealing to Bruce's friendship with Tony would work. Whatever Lahey wanted, he was unhinged and clearly desperate to get it.

Lahey pointed the gun at Steve. "After you."

They moved beyond the double doors and into a spacious lab. It was circular, the wide area encasing a central chamber that was pitch black. Nothing inside there was visible beyond the gleaming glass of the windows surrounding it. Storerooms, smaller labs, and offices fanned out along the circumference of the lab. The walls were sleek white, and harsh fluorescent lighting bathed everything with a painful, bleached intensity. Metallic lab benches and work tables filled the room, cluttered with vials and microscopes and pipettes and other equipment. Computer screens lined a main console that surrounded the chamber, and other terminals were spread throughout the room. It looked expensive, well-funded, and state-of-the-art. Numerous lab assistants watched the scene with wide eyes, surprised but not afraid enough or bold enough to help.

"Here," Bruce said. He didn't waste a moment, sweeping his arm along one of the benches and unceremoniously knocking everything to the floor.

As gently as he could, Steve laid Tony's limp body along the shining metal surface. Tony groaned in pain, gasping for air, flailing weakly. Steve caught his bloody hand in his own, laying his other palm against the wound again and putting pressure on it. Stark barked out a hoarse scream. "Easy, Tony," Steve soothed. "Easy."

Bruce was immediately at his side. He pressed his fingers to Tony's carotid artery, counting for a torturous moment. Steve breathed heavily, watching as Tony's face whitened further. He gurgled on the blood trapped in his throat, choking and sputtering, grabbing at Steve's forearm. His eyelids fluttered. He was trying to speak, but he couldn't. "Tony? Tony, can you hear me?" Bruce asked. Stark seized. "Get him on his side!" Bruce turned flashing eyes to Lahey. "I need bandages! A first aid kit! Supplies! Something, god damn it!"

Lahey still held the gun on Bruce, unmoving and uncaring. Steve glanced between him and Banner, keeping his hands gentle as he held Tony's shivering and convulsing form steady on his left side. He traded places with Bruce, the physicist's hands flying to the gunshot wound as Steve supported Tony's head to allow the blood to dribble from his mouth. "He's fading fast," Steve whispered.

"Damn it, Dan. If he dies…"

"Get him what he needs," Lahey snapped to his lab assistants.

Bruce looked back to Steve. "There an exit wound?" Steve looked at Tony's back where it was against his own midriff and saw nothing and shook his head. Bruce was extremely worried. There was already blood all over the table, veritably pouring from the injury. He ripped open Tony's button-down shirt and peered closer. "This is bad. Really, _really_ bad. He needs surgery."

"Not an option," Lahey responded. Steve didn't miss the gun shaking slightly.

Bruce's control waned again. He turned and rounded on his old friend, wild with rage and fear. "He's bleeding out! He needs surgery!" Bruce's chest heaved, and his skin was tinted again. Steve watched helplessly as the situation deteriorated anew, darting his eyes to Clint who was still surrounded and held at gun point. Barton was on his knees, his hands bound behind his back, and utterly incapable of helping them. "Let us take him out of here. Get him to a hospital. It's his only chance–"

"I can't do that. What I need you to do is too important, and this is _my_ only chance," Lahey said.

"You selfish son of a bitch! You goddamn–" The sound of Tony choking was the only thing that cut through the murderous haze in Bruce's mind, and he was back to the table, gasping through clenched teeth and visibly struggling, _fighting_, to stay himself. His hands were curled around the edge of the table, pressing so hard that the metal surface bent. He looked up at Steve, his countenance trapped in a spasm of pain and effort and anguish.

Steve reached across the table and grabbed Bruce's hand firmly and brought it back to Tony. "Don't let him go," he implored, shaking his head slightly as he held Banner's gaze and _refused_ to look away. "Letting him out won't solve anything."

Bruce swallowed and lifted his chin and drew what seemed to be a cleansing breath. "Do you have an ultrasound scanner?"

Lahey nodded. His assistants came back with bandages and tools covered in sterile wrappers and an entire cart full of supplies. A little corner of Steve's mind was really taken aback. He didn't know much about research, let alone research done in the advanced scientific and technological environments of this new century, but this didn't seem right. Why the hell would a chemist have this sort of medical equipment? However, there was no time to wonder, and it was damn lucky nonetheless. "Get his jacket off. Gently," Bruce instructed. Steve did as he was told, working Tony's arms from the sleeves on his blazer and dumping the blood-soaked garment to the floor.

"What are you going to do?" Steve asked.

Bruce was using a few bandages to try and catch the blood pouring out of Tony's abdomen. The wound was about an inch above his navel, a small, circular opening that seemed more innocuous than it actually was. Gunshot wounds to the stomach were tricky; Steve had seen men die of them quickly, die of them slowly, die of them in pain and die of them without even being aware they'd been hit. He knew enough about emergency medical care in the field to know that a great deal of vital organs were located in that area of the body. Too low and a bullet could rip through the intestines and stomach and spill bacteria into the bloodstream. Too high and the liver, spleen, kidneys, and major arteries were at risk. Considering the amount of bright, red blood spilling from Tony, it was obvious an artery of some sort had been hit.

Bruce glanced at him. "Steve, I need you to help me," he said breathlessly. "We gotta try to find the bleed – pray that there's only _one_ – and close it."

The world seemed to close in on them, on Steve and Bruce and Tony dying in front of them. Steve failed to digest that for a minute. "You mean…"

"If we don't, he'll die." The enormity of that was devastating. Steve had fought through World War II, and though the Howling Commandos had not often been wounded, he'd witnessed some fairly devastating injuries to other soldiers. He'd shot men, both during the war and on assault missions for SHIELD. Hell, he'd been shot himself more times than he cared to remember. But never so seriously. And nobody had ever asked something like this of him, to aid in some crazy, ad-hoc surgery to save a man's life. He was scared, and after battling Nazis and HYDRA and invading aliens that wasn't something he was much anymore.

Steve swallowed thickly through a dry throat, inhaled deeply to center himself and slow his thundering heart, and nodded. "Tell me what you need me to do."

One of the lab assistants returned with another smaller cart. Bruce immediately snatched it and pulled a probe with a bulbous head from it. It was connected to a tablet computer. "We have to move fast. I need you to get him back on his back but watch his breathing. If he starts struggling, lean him up to drain his airway." Steve nodded. "Okay. Go."

Steve rolled Tony back. Immediately Stark began coughing, blood splattering from his mouth, and Steve crouched at the head of the table and propped him slightly against his chest. "Easy," he softly said. He took Tony's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The inventor seemed partially conscious at best. "Just keep fighting. You'll be alright." He could almost picture Tony's eyes fluttering open and his acidic tone. _Bullshit._ But Stark's face was empty and gray and unmoving. He wasn't arguing for once. He was silent and still and slipping away from them.

Bruce switched on the machine and pressed the probe to Tony's abdomen. Steve couldn't quite see the screen from his vantage, but there was a black and white image animating as Bruce moved the scanner left and right over Stark's belly. Then he blanched. "It's worse than I thought," he announced gravely. "God, none of this is sterile…" Despite the fact his hands were covered in blood, Bruce pulled a pair of blue latex gloves on. He shoved the box at Steve. Steve fumbled to pull his fingerless combat gloves off and get the others on. While he did, Bruce shuffled through the supplies, pulling out scalpels and other tools, a long needle and medical grade sutures. "Oxygen?" he asked the lab assistants, who were watching ashen-faced and horrified. A young woman nodded and ran off. Bruce pressed the ultrasound probe to Tony's stomach again. "There's a lot of damage in there. I think the bullet's lodged near his spine."

Cold fear stabbed into Steve's heart. "Does that mean–"

"Can't worry about that now," Bruce interrupted, glancing between the ultrasound screen and the wound. "There. Damn it. In the aorta." Bruce whirled and glanced furiously at the men holding them captive. "I need another set of hands!" Nobody moved. The guns on them never even twitched. Steve gritted his teeth, glancing at Clint who looked like it was physically torturous to stay kneeling. It probably was. "What the hell is the matter with you people? He's dying! Help us! _Come on!_"

The monster threatened, and Tony choked again. Clint's loud, angry voice rose over the thundering of their hearts. "Let me help them! Let me help, goddamn it!" He was spitting rage and curses, struggling against the men holding him despite the slew of weapons pointed at him. "He's going to die! You bastards! You think you're going to be able to control the Hulk if he dies?"

Steve shook his head, eyes wide in fear, as Bruce wavered again. "Bruce!" he yelled to bring Banner back, struggling to hold Stark still as he vomited blood. "Help me!" If Bruce lost it now…

But he didn't. He forgot about the men threatening them and holding Clint prisoner and turned around and unpackaged and uncapped a scalpel. "Hold him," he ordered Steve stiffly. "Hold him!" Steve draped an arm around Tony's chest, keeping a hand under the inventor's chin and holding him as inclined as possible. Stark's head lolled against Steve's shoulder, blood dripping from slack lips and down Steve's arm. Steve grabbed the probe again and held it steady as Bruce started to cut. And Tony, as unconscious as he seemed, started to scream.

"Hold on," Steve softly said, tightening his grip as much as he dared as Stark involuntarily struggled. He could hurt Tony more if he lost control of his own strength, and the inclination to hang on with everything he had was nearly overwhelming. He knew better than anyone how much surgery without anesthesia or pain medication hurt. "Just hold on, Stark. I've got you. I've got you."

If Tony heard him, it wasn't obvious. He trembled and moaned and cried, not quite conscious but not gone enough to be removed from the agony. Steve kept his eyes on Tony's face; as strong and brave as he was, he didn't think he could stand to watch Bruce cut into the stomach of another man. Of a teammate and friend. _Friend_. It was no secret that he and Tony didn't get along; the man was too flashy, too loud and arrogant, too sure of himself. It didn't help that Stark was someone who reminded Steve of everything he had lost by simple virtue of what and who he was. That was hard to get past. Every time he saw Tony his thoughts were immediately clouded by bitterness and grief and an unwitting comparison between Tony and Howard. Howard and his son were more fundamentally similar than they were different, which was fairly ironic considering Tony thought himself to be nothing like his father who he apparently despised. Underneath all the wealth and brilliance and narcissism, Tony was a good man, as much as Howard had been if not more, and a hero in his own right. And a good man didn't deserve to suffer and die like this.

_I'm not going to let you die._ Steve held Tony as he writhed and Bruce cut. Bile burned the back of Steve's throat as his eyes involuntarily went to the bloody mess under Bruce's hands. "Keep him still," Bruce hoarsely ordered. "Christ, there's so much blood…" He was trying vehemently to remain calm and collected, but Steve saw his hands shaking and the sweat beading on his face. He worked to mop up the blood as it poured from Tony's abdomen with the bandages, but it was difficult; there was too much and they really did need another pair of hands. Every second Bruce spent trying to stem the blood loss was one less they could use to try and repair the injury. Steve let go of the probe and helped, snatching another bandage and pressing it around the wound but never sacrificing his grip on Tony's shoulders. "How's his pulse?"

Steve stretched his hand around Tony's neck. The heartbeat beneath his fingers was fast and weak. "Not good."

"He's in hypovolemic shock," Bruce said bitterly. His hands were flying, and perspiration dripped from his brow. His eyes were narrowed in anger. "That'll kill him, and I can't do anything to stop it. He needs blood."

"Bruce, easy," Steve comforted softly. "Stay calm. You can do this. We can do this." It sounded pathetic to his own ears. He was saying the same damn empty assurances over and over again like repetition could make it true and keep the Hulk contained. He would say it a thousand times with a level voice and an encouraging expression if it would help. This was what Bruce needed to hear. Tony was his friend, obviously the closest and truest he had. Bruce was terrified of losing him and losing himself. He shot frantic eyes to Steve, but Steve only offered a small nod. "He's not going to die."

Bruce drew a deep breath, one that trembled and seemed to herald him coming completely apart, but he nodded, too. The lab assistant arrived with an oxygen mask attached to a small tank. Steve leaned back, sacrificing his grip on the bandages to help the mortified young woman get the mask around Tony's face. She fiddled with the tank for a second more before skittering away. Immediately oxygen flooded the mask to help Stark breathe. But it didn't seem to help much. Steve felt Tony weaken against him, felt the pain-induced tension fade from his limbs. He didn't dare pull his fingers away from Tony's pulse point under his jaw, needing to feel every beat. But they were getting slower and weaker. Tony's breath was a pathetic wheeze that puffed against the oxygen mask. Each halting movement of his chest was a strained struggle for air, and Steve feared one of the miserable gasps would prove his last. "Hang on, Tony," he implored. "Hang on…"

"Got it," Bruce finally gasped. Steve could hardly think for his relief. "I need your hand here. If we don't get this stitched…" He didn't need to explain further. His own hand was deep inside flesh. Steve hesitated for only a moment, but he followed Bruce's orders. "There's a tear in the artery. Can you feel it? Get your finger on it! Hurry!"

Steve did feel it. He held still, quelling the urge to be sick, ignoring how the room spun around them and how his own heart raced and roared in his ears. He stuck his index finger to the tiny, pulsing tear and plugged it while Bruce scrambled to prepare to stitch it. Tony was dying in his arms with his hand literally holding the life in his body. He'd never felt quite this afraid or uncertain of himself, but he did his best to not let it show. He _couldn't_ let it show. Bruce needed him to stay calm, and he would try his hardest to do it.

Bruce was ready. "Just keep pressure on it. When I tell you to, let go." A few agonizingly long moments escaped, Bruce quickly stitching and wiping away blood and using the ultrasound to guide him. He was driven, concentration finally and _thankfully_ trumping emotion and directing hands that were now steady and confident. Steve didn't feel so endowed with courage at that moment, but he held fast. He could feel Tony's heart struggling, the hot blood surging against his fingers and the cold chill of sweat sticking uncomfortably to his skin beneath his uniform. Steady hearts and hands were all that stood between Tony and death. His steady hands and Bruce's. "Okay, let go."

It was more of a relief than he wanted to admit. He knew the serum made it impossible, but his finger and most of the rest of his hand felt cramped as he pulled it away from Tony's insides. He was tingling and numb and fumbling as he took up another bandage and tried vainly to soak up and wipe away blood. There was _so much_. "Steve… Steve!" Bruce cried. "He's not breathing!"

Horror washed over Steve. "Tony? Tony!" There was no response. Steve moved fast, standing to his full height and lowering Stark's upper body to the bloody table. He pulled the oxygen mask aside, tipped Tony's chin back, pinched shut his nose, and took a deep breath. Then he covered Tony's mouth with his own and forced the air in his body. "Stark, don't do this!"

"Does he have a pulse?"

Steve paused in breathing to jab his fingers to Tony's neck again. "No." He balled his bloody hands together over Tony's chest and started compressions, mindful of his strength as he rhythmically pushed on Tony's ribs.

"Shit." Bruce was _flying _now, his fingers a blur as he stitched and closed wounds and repaired skin and muscle. "Come on, come on, _come on!_"

Steve forced himself to stay calm, counting and breathing and counting and breathing and _praying_. "Tony, don't do this," he begged. "You're not dying on us. You hear me, Stark?" But Tony was unresponsive. Not moving or talking or seeing or breathing. For all intents and purposes he was dead. _No. No chance in hell!_

Bruce closed him up and frantically set things aside. He pressed bandages around the wound quickly and rifled like a mad man through the medical supplies. He slammed an AED to the table, as well as a few syringes. Atropine. He injected Tony and readied the defibrillator, pressing square, white pads to Tony's chest that were connected by thin wires to the small machine. "Stand back," he ordered Steve. Tony's body jerked as the AED fired. Bruce pressed his fingers to Tony's neck again and then shook his head. "Keep going. Let the epi circulate."

It was hard to be patient. Steve delivered another breath and continued CPR, trying not to think or feel or do anything besides concentrate on keeping blood moving through Tony's body. A torturous eternity passed before Bruce demanded, "Clear!" And he activated the AED again.

Tony gasped and lurched off the table. Steve could hardly believe his eyes, grabbing Tony's flailing and shuddering body before he hurt himself or fell. "Get the oxygen back on him," Bruce ordered hoarsely. "Hurry! Hurry!"

Steve reached for the mask, propping Tony against him again to aid in his breathing and pressing it over the other man's mouth and nose. Bruce measured his pulse, trembling as he counted, and his face broke in joy. "Thank God…" he whispered, closing his eyes. "Thank God."

Steve cradled Tony against him, his own relief sucking him dry of energy for a moment. A hand patted his forearm. Tony's hand. Tony's eyes were open to slits. He was okay. He was alive. His quivering fingers slid down Steve's forearm and grabbed the soldier's hand and squeezed tight. "Rogers," he whispered weakly. "Please tell me you didn't kiss me."

Steve gave an exasperated laugh. "I might have."

Tony's reddened lips shifted into a weak, feeble version of his normally teasing grin, and his eyes slipped shut again. "So strong… and handsome and–"

"Shut up, Stark," Steve said with a smile, and Tony smiled gratefully, too, and went to sleep.

* * *

Lahey let them have a few precious minutes to stabilize Tony. Steve held him, keeping a watchful eye on the billionaire's breathing and a comforting arm around the other man, while Bruce worked quickly to finish stitching the things he'd abandoned for the sake of time. When he finished with that, he applied better dressings to the wound. Stark wasn't out of the woods by a longshot; he needed blood badly and more intensive surgery performed by medical experts to truly deal with the internal damage. There was a bullet pressed against his spine, so the chances of any number of serious complications (nerve damage or even paralysis) were dreadfully high. He should have been in an ICU, not lying on a hard, unforgiving table trapped in an underground lab at the mercy of a mad scientist and his henchmen.

But he was breathing and the bleeding was under control. Given the circumstances, that was the best they could do. And that was all Lahey was going to let them do.

The moment Bruce finished bandaging Tony's abdomen, the soldiers surrounded the table. Guns were raised again, violent and threatening. Steve breathed sharply through his nose, grinding his teeth together in anger. He carefully lowered Stark's shoulders and head before putting himself between the guns and Tony's unconscious body as much as possible. Lahey leveled his weapon at Bruce. "I let you help him," he said, "and now you have to help me."

Bruce stiffened. "He needs to be in a hospital," he said slowly and evenly. He was rattled and struggling anew to keep his temper in check. With the immediate threat to Tony's life removed, his anger was settling in again, hard and quick. But the shock of it all had dulled it, and it seemed, for the moment anyway, that he was rational and in control. "You have to let us take him out of here."

"No," Lahey responded, "not until you do what I need you to." He pointed the gun at Tony again.

"You son of a bitch." Steve watched Bruce glare at Lahey. Then he glanced to Clint, who was still bound and on his knees amidst the guards. The archer was furious, his expression stony and his form stiff and unyielding. Steve knew Clint too well to not see the rage and the desire to do _something_ to stop and punish these men that was bright in his eyes. He caught his friend's gaze for a moment and gave a small shake of his head. They were still outnumbered and with an injured man. Obviously these thugs weren't afraid to shoot them. Lahey had struck hard and fast and first and permanently tied their hands. And the smug bastard knew it.

Bruce was obviously coming to the same aggravating conclusions. "What do you want from me?"

Lahey smiled. Again there was a flash of something beneath all of his confidence and control. Glee. Euphoria. Steve couldn't say, but it didn't seem particularly sane or remotely good. "I didn't want it to come to this, you know," Lahey assured. "I was just going to threaten Stark to get you to help."

"Like that makes it better?" Bruce snapped in disgust.

"No," Lahey admitted, a little downcast. "Well, your unexpected escort from SHIELD threw a wrench in my plans. But I think it'll turn out for the best."

Steve didn't like the sound of that. Bruce was losing his patience. "Enough. Just tell me what this is about."

"The science."

"Then what's with the hired help? What's with shooting an innocent man and holding us hostage? This isn't _you_, Dan, at least not the nice guy who I remember. That nice guy would never hurt anyone. Whatever AIM is promising you isn't worth this!"

Lahey seemed unsure for a brief moment. The gun wavered slightly. "They didn't promise me anything. They just believe in my ideas. They have faith."

"They're using you, Doctor Lahey," Steve said firmly, calmly, "just like they used Maya Hansen and who knows how many other scientists. They're trying to buy your allegiance." Lahey's eyes flashed in doubt. Steve wondered if maybe he knew Hansen; they were experts in the same field, after all. Perhaps knowing what happened to her would help get through to him. "They murdered her the minute they got what they want, and what they want are weapons that will hurt people."

"This isn't science," Bruce added. "Stop. Please."

Lahey shook his head. "I can't. There's no going back, Bruce. There's only going forward." He turned and strolled to the main console surrounding the central part of the room. His fingers flew over one of the keyboards, and the monitors came to life. And light flooded the chamber beyond.

"Oh, no," Bruce murmured.

Inside there was a gleaming silver table, not unlike one of the workbenches outside, only it was obviously meant for someone to lay on it. There were restraints on the sides and at the feet and some sort of apparatus built under it that looked like it would encase whoever was unfortunate enough to be on the table in metallic arms. The chamber was circular but not very big, the walls a smooth white. There were a few carts inside filled with tools. "Dan, what the hell are you doing?" Bruce murmured, dismay and disgust filling his eyes as he rapidly analyzed the setup before them. It was a dumb question because it was disturbingly obvious what Lahey was doing. He was experimenting on people.

"I'm trying to bring the human mind to the next stage of its evolution," Lahey answered matter-of-factly like that should have been obvious to Banner. Clearly it wasn't, and the other man grew impatient and irritated. "My whole life's work is right here, and this is my one moment to make it happen. To finally prove that it _can_ happen. I've been trying for years to bridge the gap between biological and emotional states – I _know_ it's possible. You do, too."

"Dan–"

But Lahey was rushing onward, and his voice dripped in ambition. In obsession. "The mind can affect the physical world, alter the state of matter, _bend_ the laws of physics. It's not impossible. I think I can achieve it. This drug I've made… Well, even a modest amount of a watered down version took the old, weak Dan Lahey and turned him into somebody much stronger and smarter and more capable."

Bruce blanched. "Dan, don't tell me you've been…"

"Everything in life is based upon our perceptions of this world! And our perceptions are colored by our emotions. We want something, so we make it happen. We hate something, so we destroy it. We love something, so we covet it or protect it or cherish it. There are so many things, so many phenomena out there, that can't be explained by physics or chemistry or biology. What made Captain America so good and the Hulk so bad when the science behind how each was made is nearly the same?" Bruce flushed and glanced at Steve. They were both trying not to get swept into this argument, but it was difficult to ignore the barrage of desperate ideas pounding at them. "The mind powers the body. Why can't it power other things? Emotions are the most meaningful part of what makes us human, what gives us the will and strength to shape our world as we see fit. It's not our DNA or our brains. It's our souls."

"This is crazy. You need to stop."

"It's not crazy! _Look_ at all the things in the last century that people thought could _never _happen. If it hadn't been for Einstein or Curie or Erskine or Hawking or Watson and Crick…" He released a short breath as if this logic was sturdy enough to support his violent actions. As if equating himself to some of the most influential geniuses of the last century could make this _okay_. "If someone had told them their ideas were crazy and they'd given up, where would we be?"

"They didn't shoot people to prove a point," Bruce snapped. "They didn't kill people to prove a point!"

"You nearly did. You nearly killed yourself," Lahey rebutted.

"And I've regretted it every second since!" Bruce sucked in a deep breath, trying to contain his rage. "Whatever it is you want to do, there are other ways to do it."

"No. Don't you think I've tried? _Every_ other attempt has killed our subjects."

Steve's blood ran cold. He looked from Lahey to Bruce and found the physicist's face white and horrified. "Every other attempt," Bruce repeated softly. _How many other attempts have there been?_ Steve wondered in anger and revulsion. What sort of sick monster was this guy? Then Bruce's expression tightened in dread, his mind obviously racing. His quick eyes scanned the chamber before them, the bed with the restraints and the equipment. "What do you… No. No, you can't. The Hulk will _never_ let you–"

"I know," Lahey interrupted. "Don't think it didn't occur to me. But the Hulk's not a pure sample. Just too many variables confound the data. And the infusion's not the problem. It's the Gamma exposure. That's why I need _you_, Bruce. I need you to help me get the Gamma exposure right. I don't know if I'm using too much or not enough or initiating it at the wrong time…" How many people had died in Lahey's pursuit of those answers? It was beyond upsetting, and it was even worse that the man didn't seem to care. It was all just _data_ to him. "The drug's my field of expertise, but this is yours. You're the only person alive who has used this amount of Gamma to stimulate biochemical absorption and genetic integration successfully."

"Successfully? There was nothing successful about it!"

"Yes, there was. Your emotions, your anger, became the starting point for a chain of powerful biochemical transformations that turn your human body into the most indestructible creature on this planet, maybe even in this galaxy. _That is success._"

Bruce looked confused and horrified at the same time. Incredulous at the reasoning coming out of a man he'd once respected as a colleague, peer, and scientist. He was hurt and betrayed and riddled with disbelief. He wanted to argue more but seemed to recognize that it was futile. Maybe he was realizing that this sort of lunacy and depravity had always been part of his friend, just carefully hidden by weakness or fear or seeming amity. Maybe not. It didn't really matter. And it didn't really matter if Lahey was being funded by AIM or another terrorist or extremist organization. This man was dangerous in his own right. Steve had seen and fought against his fair share of evil maniacs in his time. Schmidt. Nazi and HYDRA warlords and scientists. Zola. Loki. He knew the gleam he saw in Lahey's eyes. It was the stuff of nightmares, madness that made wars and threatened innocents. There was no reaching men like this, no reasoning with them and no redemption for their actions. However Lahey had come to be this way, he needed to be stopped.

Bruce shook his head after a seeming eternity of tense silence. "I'm not going to help you hurt an innocent person," he resolutely declared.

"I thought you could do it on me," Lahey said.

Bruce was mortified. "No, I won't. Damn it, Dan, _listen_ to me! I'd take it all back if I could! I don't care what you think or how sure you are. It's not worth your life! The Hulk should never have happened. I was arrogant and foolish and so full of myself that I never thought for a second that I could be wrong. And I was wrong. What happened to me was a freak accident."

"I know." Lahey shook his head. "But what happened to him wasn't."

The room was completely silent again. People were staring. It took Steve a moment to realize they were staring at him, that Lahey was referring to _him_. "What?" he asked.

Of course Banner figured it out before he did. "No," he said. His face flooded green again. "No! You can't do that!"

"Like I said, I think this will work out better. Not what I intended, but better. You brought me the perfect sample. The ideal test subject. Somebody who has a chance to survive my procedure. It's the only way I'll ever know if I'm right. It's almost like…" That gleeful, almost whimsical, expression returned to Lahey's face. He seemed like a caricature of a villain, like a character out of a bad movie. "Like this was meant to be."

And then Steve understood what Lahey meant. He swallowed thickly, feeling as if he'd just been punched in the gut. There were guns pointed at him and at Bruce. Guns pointed at Tony. His heart thudded shallowly in his chest, and the bright lights in the lab were painful and blaring and blinding. He knew the truth, what Lahey was suggesting, but he stupidly needed to question because his heart was miles behind his mind. "You want me to…" He couldn't make himself think it let alone say it.

"Steve, don't!" Clint yelled. "No!"

"I won't help you," Bruce hissed. The Hulk's voice was meshed with Banner's now. Muscles were bulging beneath Bruce's blood-soaked clothes. The monster was getting stronger and stronger. "I won't!"

"You don't have a choice," Lahey reminded, and his men moved closer to Tony. Steve couldn't protect him. Not with the number of guns on them both at close range. "And neither do you, Captain. Step away."

Steve was still, narrowing his eyes and gritting his teeth. The guard who'd been manhandling Clint was there, his rifle focused firmly on Tony's barely moving chest. As if that was not serious enough, there was a loud scuffle as three more guards hauled Clint to his feet and shoved him closer to the table on which Tony lay. His midriff was slammed into the end of the table, jostling Stark's unconscious form. "Get your goddamn hands off me," Barton snarled. His hazel eyes flashed furiously.

"Is this man your friend?" Lahey asked dispassionately.

Steve didn't answer, _wouldn't answer_, but they already knew the truth. Another one of the guards stuck the muzzle of his gun to Clint's right shoulder and pulled the trigger. The shot echoed through the room, loud and booming, and Bruce roared.

"Alright. Alright!" Steve yelled. The minute he moved away from the table, one of the soldiers pushed forward and jabbed his gun to Tony's forehead. The inventor was too deeply asleep to notice, let alone struggle.

Clint's face was contorted in pain. His shoulder was bleeding profusely, but he didn't fall or stagger or even seem to notice. He raged against the men restraining him, angrier over the fact he was being used as leverage against Steve than over the fact he'd been shot. "No! Let me go!" He was struck across the face with the butt of a rifle and collapsed heavily with a yelp.

"Don't!" Steve stepped forward but one of the guards grabbed his arm and another shoved a gun to his face. They were kicking Clint where he'd fallen.

"Stop! For God's sake, Dan, stop it!" Bruce was barely hanging on, wildly shifting his gaze between Clint's beaten form and Steve's stalwart face and Tony's unconscious body. Then he growled and dropped his head to his hands and ripped his fingers through his hair. He was panting loudly, bent over in pain and pent-up frustration, sweat dripping from his face again. The men hurting Clint abandoned their task, and every gun in the room swung to Banner.

"Bruce," Steve said, desperate to hold this together for all their sakes. "Please don't."

Bruce looked at him and _listened_, eyes wide and scared, his breath hissing through clenched teeth. His body was shaking and twisting and battling with itself. This was a nightmare. _Let the Hulk loose. Let the Hulk end this._ The inclination to do that was so damn strong. The Hulk would destroy this place and put a stop to Lahey's plans like nothing else was capable of doing. But he couldn't. And if Tony and Clint were killed while the Hulk was unleashing his wrath, Bruce would never be able to forgive himself.

Two lives were worth one. Right? Steve wasn't a scientist or a genius, but he knew a hell of a lot about lying down on the wire so other men could live. And he was damn sure two lives were worth more than one.

Steve looked into Bruce's eyes again and tried to draw the man back out of the monster. He needed Banner to hold onto his mind, to maintain his smarts and wits, and do what Lahey wanted. Figure out the solution to the problem so that Bruce could aid this bastard in doing who knew what to him. It was probably his only chance of surviving this… experiment. _What the hell am I doing?_ _No choice. No other way._

There was no way Steve was going to let anyone die when he could stop it.

He set his jaw and lifted his chin in defiance, his hands balled to fists at his side and every muscle in his body tight and ready. "Leave them alone," he ordered firmly, looking Lahey directly in the eye. "I'll do whatever you want. But if you so much as touch either of them again, this is over." He didn't say what would happen, and he didn't make idle threats. He hoped Lahey realized that.

Lahey couldn't contain his joy, a relieved, ecstatic smile curling his lips. It was more than disturbing. It was downright _terrifying_. "As long as you cooperate, I won't."

"Fine."

"Bruce?"

Banner looked like he was going to be sick. He closed his eyes in defeat. "Yes."

"Take him," Lahey ordered the remainder of his men. Clint was yelling, but nobody paid him any heed. More than half the soldiers swarmed Captain America. It took all of Steve's will to remain pliant and submissive as his arms were grabbed and wrenched behind his back. It would be a simple matter, really nothing at all, to toss these bastards across the room and free himself. Just to dig his boots into the floor and prevent them from taking him. He could fight them all single-handedly if he had to. Desperation drove his panicked mind to rapidly run through the options, judging the outcomes of this attack or the consequences of that strike, but there was no move he could make that would stop either Clint or Tony or both from being killed. His frustration mounted as he was pushed and dragged toward that chamber.

He met Bruce's eyes. The Hulk was completely gone, trapped again and sobered by the weight of the burden on Banner's unwilling shoulders. Caged and helpless. Bruce could hardly stand to look at him. He was bent and suffering with grief and guilt and utterly coated in Tony's blood. They both were. "I'm so sorry, Steve," he hoarsely mumbled, like this was his last chance to make amends. Hopefully it wouldn't be. _Please_ _don't let it be._

Steve offered a faint smile. "It's not your fault, Bruce." He had no chance to say or do anything else – he wanted to ask Bruce to make sure he got it _right_ – before the men yanked him away. The doors to the interior of the lab swished open to reveal some sort of small clean room. He was pushed inside and through another set of doors and into the chamber, where assistants were donning protective gear. His eyes widened. When he really started to process and understand what was about to happen, it was devastating. Things flashed through his mind. Doctor Erskine's kind, compassionate face. Peggy's worried eyes. Howard's cool confidence. The scientists and doctors and military men and government officials watching as he walked slowly to the smooth capsule that would transform him into a super soldier. It had been frightening, but more than that, it had been exciting and empowering with the best intentions driving it. He'd never been treated like anything but a person capable of making the choice. And he'd made his choice without a bit of doubt. He'd wanted it.

This was depraved and evil and he was nothing more than a specimen. And he wanted to _run_. His body moved without the consent of his mind, driven by panic and self-preservation.

"Don't struggle," Lahey ordered from outside the chamber. Steve stopped fighting, even as his heart pounded and his breath locked in his chest and his skin crawled with icy nervousness. "Their lives are depending on you."

Their lives. Tony and Clint. He couldn't forget. And he couldn't fight. _Don't struggle._

The lab assistants were preparing the table that awaited his helpless body, the restraints that would hold him down and the tools that would inflict whatever horrors they wanted. Steve was still trying his absolute hardest to stay in control, to not to be afraid. But this time his hardest wasn't good enough.

Not nearly.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER:** _Iron Man 3, The Incredible Hulk,_ _Captain America: The First Avenger,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Just a little warning that this chapter probably butts up against a higher rating for disturbing imagery. Read at your own discretion. Thanks!

**UNSUSTAINABLE**

**4**

It hadn't taken long at all for Clint and Steve to become good friends. Clint had been in a bit of a dark place when Steve had joined SHIELD. After the Chitauri invasion, he'd been lost. Loki had taken his mind hostage. Having a deranged Norse god playing around in his thoughts, forcing his body to be an unwilling instrument for evil, violating his most personal secrets… It had screwed him up badly. The rage and shame and grief had been unbearable. He wasn't used to dealing with his emotions, let alone trauma on such a grand and devastating scale. As an assassin and a SHIELD agent, he'd learned to compartmentalize things ages ago, to distance himself from what he thought and felt to get the job done. That was what he'd been trained to do. With the Battle of New York behind him, SHIELD had assigned him a psychiatrist to help him come to terms with what he had done and what had been done to him. The order had come down from Fury himself, and it had pissed Clint off something fierce. Clint had outright ignored it because the _last_ thing he'd wanted to do was "share" his feelings with a shrink. He couldn't control how he felt, let alone understand it, and they wanted him to let all that fury and hatred out? One minute he was the perpetrator, the enemy, a monster himself who'd killed fellow agents and massacred innocents and threatened the safety of the world… And the next he was a victim, helpless and hurt and brutalized by someone else's cruel whims. It was impossible to reconcile that, to determine where he had ended during all of fighting and plotting and murdering and where Loki had begun.

A few days into Steve joining SHIELD at Fury's request, he'd been assigned to help Clint and the STRIKE Team bring down a hostile nest of terrorists in Afghanistan. Clint had been throwing himself whole-heartedly into his work because that had been the only way he could function, the only way he could survive. He'd been running himself ragged, exhausting himself, moving faster and driving harder and pushing and _pushing_. He'd pushed everyone away, even Natasha, too tormented and tortured to tolerate anyone's intrusion into his self-imposed exile. Needless to say he'd been unhappy at having Captain America butt his nose into his mission. He'd been willing enough to follow Rogers' orders during the Battle of New York. He'd been hell-bent on stopping Loki and even more determined to redeem himself when he was honest enough with himself to admit it. But having Rogers on this mission felt like Fury was babysitting him, like the Director had _known_ Clint had been falling apart and needed oversight. And he had needed it. The mission had gone south, and in the midst of the firefight he'd completely lost it. In a blind rage, he'd lashed out at the terrorists, killing when he should have been capturing, utterly failing to lead his team. The blood lust hadn't even satiated his pain or desire for vengeance. The STRIKE Team had tried to talk him down, but he hadn't listened, too far gone and determined to pull every goddamn monster of out those holes in the desert and _end_ them like he himself deserved to be ended. Uprooting and exterminating evil. He'd been hurt, shot, but even that hadn't pierced the red, murderous haze in his head.

But Steve had. Steve had stopped him, forced him to lower his bow, forced him to stand down. Steve hadn't let Clint fight him, his voice level and his eyes calm and his grip firm but not painful. And later, when he'd woken up in the infirmary back aboard the helicarrier, Steve had been there, dirty and hurt himself but seemingly untouched by the whole experience. Clint had expected a stern dressing-down from a commanding officer. He'd expected anger and disappointment from Captain America, the world's finest, steadiest soldier and the best hero. He'd gotten none of that. _"You know what separates good men from bad men? It's what we do with our anger," _Steve had softly said, _"and what we do with our pain."_ A strong hand had grabbed his knee through the coarse blanket. _"You don't have to go it alone."_ A sincere smile. _"Somebody's always been there to tell me that when I needed to hear it."_

That was it. No judgment. No derision or doubt or pity. No fake compassion or awkward silence or placating solace. Just a quiet reminder that there was life outside the cell of his own depression. Just a promise. It didn't matter that Rogers was at least five years his junior, a man out of time and out of place, someone who knew absolutely nothing about him. In fact, that had been almost a blessing. Clint had no need to pretend to be okay with him. Clint had no need to continue this farce that he was the same guy he had been before Loki had gotten into his head. Steve being who he was had removed the pressure to act like everything was okay when it wasn't, and that had somehow made everything better.

And after that, they'd worked together all the time. It was as if Fury had realized there was this tentative connection between the two of them, that Clint needed Steve's silent, unimposing sturdiness to get him through his pain, and that Steve needed Clint to be a friend to him in this strange, new world. They were alike in personality: quiet, serious, deliberate, private, sometimes prone to overthinking the wrong things and not thinking other things through at all. They operated the same way, anticipated the same twists and turns in combat. As partners they were efficient and strong, Clint's ruthlessness tempered by Steve's nobility. Steve brought out the best in Clint and made fighting back the darkness upon which Loki had prayed that much easier. And everybody thought Steve was doing such an admirable job of fitting into the future, but he didn't always, and Clint was there to silently stand by him when the grief got too strong. They even started to do _normal_ things together on the rare occasions they were not on a mission. Sharing a beer over dinner. Running. Challenging each other on the shooting range or in the gym. Watching baseball or football or whatever movie they were in the mood for. Steve lived in DC and Clint crashed wherever he happened to be after returning from the latest op, but they always managed to find each other. They fell into each other, fit together in ways that suited them both, and for the first time in a long time, Clint had someone on whom he depended. A true friend. Natasha had teased him over it, jokingly remarking that it was almost like Clint had adopted Captain America as a surrogate little brother. Clint had told her to shut up, but inside he'd felt ridiculously proud of it and _good_ about it. He wasn't used to feeling good about anything.

So needless to say, it was difficult for him to stay still and not fight and helplessly _watch_ as Steve was being pulled away. As Steve was being manhandled and dragged at gunpoint inside that chamber. As Steve was being forced to submit because Clint was being held as a hostage and used as leverage. As Steve faced being strapped to a table and subjected to who knew what as part of some sort of nightmarish experiment.

This was wrong. He needed to stop this. He needed to do something. _Do something!_ He struggled up to his feet, but he couldn't go any further. "Easy there," one of the men holding him ordered coldly. Clint stiffened, breathing sharply through his nose, arching his back as the muzzle of one of the rifles was jabbed into it. "Stay cool."

Clint gritted his teeth until his jaw ached from the pressure. Blood slipped down his arm and flank from his shoulder, and his ribs ached fiercely where he'd been kicked, but he didn't let that deter him. "Doctor Banner," he called. Ahead Bruce was breathing shallowly, shaking, his hands limp and loose at his side. Defeated. "Don't do this." His harsh demand drew Banner's attention, but the brown eyes that turned to him were dead and devoid of rage. The Hulk was gone from his gaze. Clint struggled to keep his own anger in check. "Please don't."

"I don't have a choice," Bruce answered, like that somehow made this okay. Like that was reason enough to stop fighting.

In Clint's opinion, there was _never_ a good enough reason to stop fighting. Maybe he was naïve and overly stubborn for thinking that, but it wasn't in his nature to accept limitations or losses. Steve had taught him something about standing up and doing the right thing, even when the odds were bleak. "You think they're gonna let any of us go?" Clint raged. He knew how terrorists operated, how guns-for-hire and mercenaries murdered their witnesses and opted for maximum casualties rather than face incarceration. "You think doing this is going to save Stark or save me? It won't, doc. So don't do it." The gun jabbed harder in his back. The thug by Stark pressed his pistol deeper into the unconscious man's forehead. Clint breathed harshly through clenched teeth. In the chamber behind them, he caught glimpses of Steve as the soldiers and technicians pushed him beside that table. He planted his hands upon it, clearly yearning to push back, hesitating to comply even with the guns at his back and the guns on his friends. He looked up, terror bright in blue eyes, sweat coating his face. Clint had never seen Steve afraid. Not like this. Their gazes locked again, but that was all Clint could see. Fear.

Clint turned to look back at Banner. "Please," he whispered. There was no reason to hide anything now. No reason not to beg. "He's my friend."

No one cared. "Strip!" hollered one of the soldiers in the chamber. The man looked frightened as well, frightened by the idea of facing Captain America and trying to force him into doing what they wanted. He looked downright scared shitless. Clint was more than slightly pleased at that. When Steve didn't move, the soldier rammed the butt of his gun into Steve's lower back. Steve hardly grimaced. "I said strip! Now!"

"Go," snarled one of the men behind Clint. Clint refused, making his body as unbendable as a board and as unmovable as a wall. It didn't matter. While they couldn't make Steve do anything, Clint was unfortunately more pliable. _"Walk."_

They grabbed his arms and shoved him up to the console surrounding the booth. Clint glared icily at Lahey, who'd been stony and impassive since Steve had acquiesced to his demands. Confident, maybe for Bruce's sake but probably for his own. The guy was a certifiable monster, a mad scientist in the flesh. "You son of a bitch," Clint snarled. "You'll rot in hell for this."

Lahey ignored him. "I said not to struggle, Captain," he called through the intercom to the chamber. Steve still stood even as they marched Clint as close as possible to the huge glass windows surrounding the chamber. They wanted Steve to have a perfect view of what he stood to lose if he didn't cooperate. That made Clint's heart pound even harder, his blood veritably boiling in ire, as he was made to stand with a gun at his temple and another at his back. Lahey looked between his hostage and his test subject. "Now take your clothes off."

The muscles of Steve's face shifted as he worked his teeth together in frustration. Then he stood straighter and reached for the zipper of his uniform. Everybody watched as he followed Lahey's orders, slipping his combat boots off his feet and his clothes off his body. It was humiliating and degrading. After a long, silent moment, Steve was clad only in his boxers, his chest heaving in ragged, anxious breaths. "Now what?" he tightly demanded.

"Up on the table," Lahey ordered. He didn't wait to see if Steve complied, moving toward the computer terminals situated around the console. His fingers flew across one of the keyboards, another of his assistants joining him at a different monitor and aiding in preparing their equipment. Clint watched as Steve hesitated again, as that raw fear darted across eyes that were staring at the table like it was worse than any villain, any monster, any terrorist hidden in any foxhole they'd ever faced. It was. How the hell had it come to this? It had all happened so fast, and Clint was helpless to stop it. They were all _helpless_.

Inside the chamber, the guards got anxious and impatient. One of them lifted his arms to ram Steve with his rifle again, but Captain America smoothly whirled around and caught the gun in his hand. He didn't take it, didn't disarm the soldier, but the man stepped back, alarmed and horrified. The other guards came closer, their weapons threatening. Steve shoved the weapon back into the thug's chest, and the man stumbled away and nearly fell. He was lucky he hadn't been thrown across the room. "Back off," he snapped.

Lahey glanced up from his work, but he didn't need to say anything or threaten Clint or Tony any further. Steve glanced to Clint, furious and afraid, not begging him for help but desperate for it nonetheless. Clint swallowed through a dry, tight throat. _I'm sorry._ The words rushed about his addled mind, burning and scorching like lightning scraping his useless thoughts. _I'm sorry. Don't do this. Somebody stop it. Fight, Steve. Don't let them do this to you. Fight!_

Steve grabbed the edge of the table and pulled himself up onto it. Clint closed his eyes in defeat, trembling in hardly restrained emotion. He couldn't make himself watch as the soldiers and lab assistants swarmed their test subject and grabbed Captain America's arms and legs and held him down. The restraints were fastened across Steve's ankles and wrists. Straps were buckled over his chest and abdomen and thighs, cutting into his skin. He could break them if he tried. If he wanted. _Break them!_ "What are you going to do to him?" Clint's lips moved around the soft words. He hadn't thought to ask. It was akin to accepting that this was going to happen, that it was inevitable and beyond his control.

Lahey ignored him. "Bruce," he beckoned. When Banner didn't move closer, Lahey got frustrated. "Come here. Now. Enough of this. I'm through with asking."

Another of the men grabbed Bruce by the arm, emboldened by how completely they controlled the Avengers, and shoved him next to Lahey. Clint went taut, glancing at Banner and almost praying that Bruce would lose control and unleash the Hulk and _destroy_ these men. But he didn't. He was absolutely wrecked, shocked and beaten down. There was a flurry of activity inside the chamber. The assistants were measuring Steve's vital signs, logging their data like good little scientists. Clint wanted to scream. One came with a few needles, swabbing Steve's right bicep before injecting him. Steve's hands furled into fists in the cuffs and then jerked loose again. Clint worried the reaction was due to pain for a second, but he realized Steve was just trying to stay still and restrain his strength. So much restraint. "What is that?" Clint demanded of Lahey. "What was in those needles?"

Lahey ignored him again. Like he was nothing. Like Steve was nothing. Like Tony was nothing. But Bruce he respected. Bruce he _needed_. "Here's the data on the infusion," he quietly said as he leaned over Bruce's shoulder, and with a few taps of the keyboard, a database of files appeared on one of the monitors. Bruce reluctantly came closer. He gathered up the remains of his equanimity and narrowed his eyes as he looked at what Lahey was showing him. "Now autopsy confirmed 82% of the drug was successfully drawn through the lipid bilayer, but cell death occurred from cytotoxicity before it was able to interact with the DNA."

"I thought you said the infusion wasn't the problem?" Bruce angrily said.

"It's not."

"How can it not be? It _kills _living tissue. It's poison!"

"It's not the problem," Lahey retorted angrily, obviously affronted with the mere idea that his drug was flawed. "Death isn't instantaneous. After the infusion, subjects have survived anywhere from five to fifteen minutes." Bruce blanched, his wide eyes glancing to Steve as though he was realizing the enormity of what was about to happen. The enormity and the goddamn _finality_. "That leads me to believe I'm introducing the Gamma exposure too late in the process, that I need to induce mutation earlier but I'm not sure when or how much to use."

Bruce shook his head as he scrolled through the records. "Jesus, Dan," he whispered. "How many people died for this?"

Lahey didn't answer that. He was thinking aloud, treating Bruce like a partner in his experiment when the other man was anything but. "And getting the Gamma intensity wrong isn't helping. But he's got the super soldier serum on his side, right. And that should confer some defense against necrosis. Or at least postpone it. And against radiation sickness. Right?" Bruce didn't answer. Lahey got frustrated, his eyes flashing in anger and mounting desperation. "Right, Bruce?" he hotly prodded.

"I don't know," Bruce snapped. The monitors mounted at the top of the chambers winked to life. Clint winced as they began to display Steve's vital signs. Blood pressure and respiration and heart rates. Bruce grimaced. "I don't know!"

"It has to," Lahey returned. He started furiously typing at the computer. "It has to. Erskine's notes said his serum creates a level of cellular defense and regeneration that far surpasses a normal human's. That'll mitigate the cytotoxic effects long enough for the Gamma to do its job."

"You wanted a pure sample. He's just as impure as I am. You have no idea how your drug is going to interact with the super soldier serum," Bruce argued, shaking his head. "There's no way to even predict it. _No way._ This isn't good science, and you know it."

Appealing to Lahey's humanity had failed. Threatening him had failed. Bruce was trying now to reach him through the only thing that seemed to matter to him. "I don't have any other choice. My drug kills the brain before it can infuse with DNA."

"He's a human being, not some specimen you can randomly experiment on!" Clint shouted. "You sick bastard! Let him go!"

"Easy, Clint," Steve calmly ordered from inside the chamber. He couldn't see them anymore, tied to the table with his gaze locked to the ceiling. Clint fumed, hot tears of frustration and pain burning in his eyes. He didn't know how Steve could hold himself together in the face of what was before him. How Steve could be so damn strong and self-sacrificing.

And Lahey was thundering on like a madman. "Look at the data, Bruce!" he roared. "It's there. Infusion rates and Gamma amounts and durations and time until catastrophic cell death. It's all there! Figure out what I'm doing wrong!" Bruce still hesitated, his face scrunched in a furious, helpless frown. "Figure it out," Lahey hissed, pointing his gun at Bruce. His hand was shaking and his eyes glowed bright with feverish insanity.

Bruce's anger emerged again. Clint was almost glad to see it. Anger meant a struggle. "I don't know how. You're asking me to glance over mountains of data and solve a problem I don't know anything about. I need time. Be reasonable, for Christ's sake!"

Lahey wasn't deterred by Bruce's excuses. "I know how smart you are." Bruce was shocked and hurt at that, like all of this craziness was punishment for his intelligence. He glanced at Clint like he wanted the SHIELD agent to argue on his behalf, but there was nothing to say. Clint jerked and the men grasped him tighter and the guns dug harder into him again. His eyes turned to the chamber, where Steve waited, breathing quickly in barely controlled panic, bound to that table and helpless.

Then Lahey completely lost his patience. "Prep him," he commanded his lab assistants in the chamber. Everything smooth and calm and controlled about him had been eroding since he'd shot Stark, and now it was totally worn away, leaving behind only hysteria and a frenzied rush to see his dream fulfilled. He turned back to Bruce and shoved the gun in his face. "_Figure it out!_"

"Then leave me alone and let me think!" Bruce shouted back. He sat at the console and started looking over the data, visibly fighting to concentrate. The next few minutes dragged away, and they felt as if they were an endless eternity of tension and fear. Clint stood stiffly, his shoulder throbbing relentlessly, his head pounding and his vision swimming with dizziness. His flesh crawled as he waited and _waited_. Mindlessly his fingers worked, twisting against the zip tie until his skin was cut and bloodied. He'd been trying constantly since they'd bound him to free himself, but it was impossible. Still he kept trying, even if his fingers were numb from constricted circulation and his wrists were cut raw. It was the only thing left to him. The only thing he could do to help, which was complete and utter bullshit, because there was _no _escape. No way to fight. No way to stop this.

Banner was trying to keep focused, but it was hard because the lab assistants in the chamber were readying equipment around Steve. Clint had thought those wicked arms under the table would come out and encircle Steve, but that wasn't the case. A hydraulic hiss resounded as a platform raised the table a good three feet so that Steve was at the height of the assistants' heads. They ducked under the table and snapped the arms in position beneath it. Clint couldn't exactly see where, but he did see needles at the end of each. He nearly choked on his breath as he watched the technicians place an apparatus at the head of the bed. Steve shifted uncomfortably, fearfully, pulling against the restraints as two long needles, each more than six inches of metal ending in a razor-sharp, thick point, were extended from the machine. Extended and moved closer and closer to each of Steve's temples. "No," Clint whispered. He turned murderous eyes toward Lahey. "What the hell's the matter with you?" Steve's ragged cry echoed through the lab. Clint could barely stand to watch as those needles were driven into Steve's skull. "What are you going to do to him? Answer me, damn it!"

"I'm expanding his mind," Lahey answered, at long last acknowledging Clint. "The infusion goes directly into the cerebral spinal fluid. Normally the anesthetic would make this less painful." Steve screamed again. Clint looked away, torn by overwhelming anger and disgust and fear. "Hurry, Bruce. With his metabolism, the clock is ticking even faster."

Bruce didn't answer, ignoring the screaming, the pressure, the guns at his back and pointed at Clint and Tony. Everything depended on him now, on his agile mind digesting this data at record speed and deducing the right answer. _Steve's life depended on him_. If he couldn't determine how to fix the Gamma exposure, Steve would most certainly die. His brown eyes flicked over the arrays of data, reading and analyzing and thinking faster than seemed possible. Clint didn't consider himself stupid in the least bit; he knew he was more than capable in almost any situation, gifted with steady hands and tactical smarts and common sense. But what Bruce was doing – what Bruce _needed_ to do – was so far beyond him that he was small and weak and completely insignificant in comparison.

Steve's howl drew his attention back to the horror unfolding before him. On the monitors above them the soldier's vitals lurched wildly, his heart and respiration rates increasing dramatically and his blood pressure skyrocketing. Steve's hands were balled into crushing fists, his back arching off the table to reveal nearly a dozen thick needles sticking into his spine. _Oh,_ _God._ Clint felt his stomach lurch in misery. "Captain, stay still," Lahey ordered. The lab techs grabbed Steve's writhing form and tried to pull him flat and guide him back down, but he was too strong. "Stay still. Struggling will make it hurt more."

Steve gave a low, hoarse groan. He was shaking with pain and effort, the effort required to go against what was surely every bit of self-preservation and relax. He sank back to the table, gasping and shivering and fighting to stay limp. Clint couldn't see his face.

Lahey was becoming increasingly anxious. "Well, Bruce?"

"Give me a goddamn minute," Banner snapped. Now he had another program open on the computer monitor, some sort of statistical package that he was using to do an analysis. From his vantage, Clint couldn't read the results, and he sincerely doubted he could interpret them anyway. Sweat lined Banner's forehead, his eyes narrowed as he deftly moved his fingers across the keyboard. He shook his head. "I don't know… Maybe…" He glanced at Lahey. "This is fundamentally flawed. If your data is right, your drug is causing too much damage–"

"No."

"The DNA is denaturing before there's even a chance to–"

"Like I said, the radiation is coming too late."

"The radiation is only going to make it worse unless you properly stabilize the reaction," Bruce argued. "You can't pour more fuel onto a fire and expect anything other than more fire!"

"So I _am_ using too much Gamma," Lahey surmised. Clint didn't know a damn thing about biochemistry but even he figured out that was not what Bruce had said. "And you've corrected that?"

Bruce looked flabbergasted, like he couldn't believe someone he'd once considered a genius in his own right could be so ignorant, so blinded to his own mistakes and faults. He turned his shocked gaze from Lahey to the computer monitor. There were some graphs on it, graphs Clint didn't understand, but it looked like an answer to Lahey's question. He didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified. He settled on terrified. "I don't know," Bruce said. "In the end it's the same amount of exposure but in a different sequence. More in the beginning and less at the end. I have no idea if this will work."

Lahey could hardly contain his excitement. "Only one way to find out." He pulled Bruce away from the keyboard. He was rapidly firing orders at his assistants, long words and jargon that Clint couldn't understand filling the air, and then he looked into the chamber as the techs furiously worked at the computers. "Let's do this."

"No!" Clint cried. His composure utterly snapped, and he couldn't stand to be still one more second. "No! You goddamn son of a bitch! He just said he didn't know if it would work!"

"Infusion in thirty seconds," Lahey announced, watching his monitors with a calm mask that did nothing to hide the visceral tinge of excitement dancing in his eyes. He clasped a friendly hand on Bruce's shoulder, friendly like they were both in this _together_. Like it was what they both wanted. "I need you to adjust things as we go, okay?" Bruce didn't answer. His eyes were closed. He was shaking. "Keep the monster in the cage. You need to think now. Okay? You with me, Bruce?"

"Bruce, no!" Clint yanked away from the grips of the guards and flung himself toward Banner. "Don't do it! No!"

"Get him out of here," Lahey ordered, not even looking toward Clint as he raged. "Put him and Stark in the annex."

And that was it. He wasn't useful anymore. There was no need for leverage, for violent persuasion. Lahey had gotten exactly what he wanted and he was getting rid of extraneous baggage. The soldiers dragged Clint away, Clint who couldn't stop himself from kicking and struggling and landing his boot into the midriff of one man and his forehead into the nose of another. However, none of it mattered now. They pulled him away from the console, away from Bruce, away from Steve. A rifle slammed into his face and blood filled his mouth as his teeth gnashed his cheek. He was down on the cold tiles of the floor, being kicked and yanked and carried away. Clint fought with everything he had left, panic and rage flooding him until he couldn't think anymore, but it was no use.

The soldiers moved him to one of the rooms adjacent to the main lab and opened the door. It was a smaller lab filled with idle equipment. They threw him inside. He landed roughly on his shot shoulder and was unable to stifle the yelp that blew past his lips with the air that rushed from his lungs. With his arms so tightly bound, Clint struggled to roll over from his side to relieve the pressure on the wound. He barely got his knees beneath him, bracing his heated forehead against the cold floor for a moment. Then more men came, carrying Stark's limp, bloody body. They set him down beside Clint and slammed the door shut and locked it.

"No," Clint groaned. The room was spinning and his ears were ringing and blood was pounding in his head. But even the stampede of his pulse wasn't loud enough to blot out the sound of Steve screaming. "God. Oh, God." He struggled upward, swallowing the burn of bile in his throat, and shuffled on his knees over to the door. Light bled through the crack between the bottom of the door and floor, bright illumination that hurt his eyes. He could hear muffled words and the sound of a machine whirring and powering up. "Let me out of here! Let me out!"

Nobody did. Nobody even answered. He rammed his unhurt shoulder to the door, but it wouldn't budge. He had to do something. It was terribly difficult to think with Steve's hoarse cries echoing through the lab, but he forced himself to ignore them, to be strong and not picture the hell through which his friend was going. Thoughts tumbled about his head, wild and frantic, and he quickly took stock of his surroundings. The long room was loaded with supplies. Equipment and tools and computers covered the two lengthy lab benches attached to each wall. Obviously it served as an auxiliary work area. There had to be something here he could use to free himself. He'd been in situations like this, bound and trussed and trapped by the enemy. He'd gotten himself out before. He could do it now.

Clint slumped down and worked his hands under him. Having long arms and a shorter stature proved useful on occasion, and he wriggled and twisted until his hands were down by his boots. It was hard given how tightly his wrists were bound and his wounded shoulder, but he didn't let the discomfort slow him down. With a cry of pain, he slid his arms under and over his boots and got them to his front. Then he stood and raced to the work benches. He yanked out drawers, messily digging through laboratory paraphernalia, searching for anything that could cut the zip tie. "Come on, come on, _come on!_"

In the matter of few frenzied seconds, he'd checked the entirety of both benches. There was nothing. No scissors or box cutter or razor or _anything_ with a sharp edge that he could use. There also wasn't a phone and all of the computers were locked with either a finger print scanner or by password, so he had no way to call for help. "God damn it," he moaned, sweat stinging his eyes as he stood in the center of the room and looked around once more, praying he'd missed something. Then he listened and listened hard. He couldn't hear Steve anymore. He couldn't hear _anything_. "God damn it!"

Clint ran back to the door in two huge strides, stepping over Stark's unconscious form and pressing his ear to the gray surface. It was silent. He grabbed the knob and twisted it in his blood-slicked fingers, but it was as secured as he'd feared. His balance was far better with his arms in front of him, and he kicked the door as mightily as he could. It didn't give. Frustration clenched his gut. _Somebody help me!_ He looked around, up to the ceiling, down through the gap between the door and the floor, scanning the stuff atop the benches _again_. There had to be some way out. He wasn't going to give up!

Suddenly Steve screamed even louder than before. The horrific sound broke Clint's tenuous hold on his emotions, and he threw himself into the door with reckless abandon, swearing and yelling and spitting fire. More yelling resounded outside. He couldn't make out the words. Exhausted and nearly defeated, he collapsed to the door. "Somebody help me…"

"…ell's goin' on?"

The strained murmur cut through Clint's despair. He ripped around and crawled over to Stark. The inventor's face was deathly gray and sallow. Blood was drying on his lips and chin. The soldiers had taken away the oxygen mask, and he wasn't breathing very well. Clint winced as he glanced at the blood soaked bandage over Stark's middle, praying that the rough handling hadn't torn open any of Bruce's stitches inside or out. "Stark," he gasped, touching his fingers to the pulse point on Tony's wrist. His heart rate was decent enough. "Tony, can you hear me? It's Barton. You with me?"

"No." Tony winced and shifted. "Ow."

"We're in trouble," Clint explained. "We need to get out of here." The monumental stupidity of that statement struck him and left him even more desperate. Stark was half dead – what the hell could he do? "You have a phone? Anything? Please tell me you have something…" He shoved shaking fingers into Tony's jeans pockets, but there was nothing, not even the keys to his car. His blazer had been left in a blood-soaked mess on the floor outside, so whatever might have been in that was unreachable. Stark lived and breathed technology and gadgets and he had _nothing_ on him that Clint could use. Another deep and ragged scream echoed through the lab. Clint winced and battled tears. "Christ, they're killing him…"

Stark suddenly flung out his right arm, nearly knocking Clint over in surprise. "… incoming…" he muttered. His half-lidded eyes blinked as he put all of his effort into both staying awake and holding his palm out toward the sealed door. Clint turned and looked at the door, half expecting to see a smoldering hole or _something_ in the smooth metal. However, there was nothing, even after a moment of anxious waiting. Clint grimaced in confusion, shaking his head. Stark was delirious as all hell. Maybe he thought he was wearing his suit? Tony licked his lips and shrugged slightly. "Takes a while. Give it a minute."

"What the hell are you–"

An explosion suddenly rocked the lab outside. It was coming from the opposite side of the chamber, by the doors they'd used to enter. Clint flinched, instinctively throwing himself over Stark's body. Shock and fear raced over him, his mind empty in alarm and beyond even considering what was happening outside. There were more screams, screams that weren't Steve's, and yelling and guns firing. And then the door blew open.

"Holy shit," Clint breathed.

Iron Man hovered in the door frame in all of its red and gold glory. The repulsors in its palms and boots were ignited, keeping the gleaming suit of armor aloft. Clint watched in utter stupefaction, wondering who the hell was piloting it. Then the armor flew apart in a graceful, coordinated show, and he realized Iron Man was flying itself.

Tony balled his hand into fist and with an agonized cry yanked it back toward him. And the pieces of the suit raced toward Clint. The archer had no time to move or think or even _prepare_ as the chest plate slammed onto his back and unfurled around his body. He felt heat along his wrists and saw the red light of a confined laser slice the zip tie and suddenly he was free. He hardly had time to even realize that as the gauntlets and vambraces enclosed his hands and arms, the armor smoothly expanding up and down his body. The boots and leg pieces transformed perfectly midflight to bend around his thighs, calves, and feet where he crouched. And then the helmet slid over his head and the face plate came down and he was inside.

The HUD display was beautifully alight before his stunned eyes, crystal clear and vibrant. "What the hell?" he whispered.

"Agent Barton." The calm British accent of Stark's AI filled the helmet. "Shall I put you in contact with SHIELD?" Clint's shock was quickly turning to relief and exhilaration and he drew a deep breath, his eyes quickly devouring the glowing images before him. Some of them he didn't understand, but the AI had gone ahead and was working on putting a call into SHIELD without his approval. "One moment, sir. There is no reception this far underground so I need to access the Institute's wireless network."

On the screen, SHIELD's logo appeared in the lower right. It was almost immediately replaced with Maria Hill's stoic face. "Barton? What the hell are you doing in Stark's suit?"

"No time to explain," he returned. "Banner's friend is insane. He's experimenting on the Cap. Stark's been shot. We need immediate med-evac and backup!"

Hill didn't look fazed. She never did. She nodded curtly. "I'm sending the STRIKE Team to you."

Clint stood. The joints in Iron Man were powered, making the motion smooth and effortless. The armor wasn't heavy at all. Tony had managed to prop himself up slightly. "You break it, you buy it," he mumbled wearily. His eyes slipped shut and he slumped again. "Go get 'em."

Clint was out the door a breath later, slamming it shut behind him to protect Stark. Smoke and flames greeted him as well as a barrage of bullets. It took his beleaguered mind a moment to realize he didn't need to worry about dodging the gunfire, the shots clanking uselessly against the plates of armor surrounding him. Clint gasped happily, goddamn _gleefully_, his relief nearly staggering as he raised his hand and power surged through the gauntlet and the repulsor fired. One of the soldiers went down with a howl, struck in the chest. "Whoa," Clint murmured. Despite everything, he had to admit that this was pretty awesome. He whirled, firing both repulsors at the men shooting at him. A soldier rammed him, but he hardly felt the blow and stayed on his feet. Balling Iron Man's gauntlet into a fist, he punched back into bastard's face, sending him flying. Another came at him, the one who'd shot him before, and tried to sweep his legs out from under him. His foot smashed into Iron Man's boot and broke. He yowled as Clint kicked him aside and then stomped down and planted his boot against the man's throat. A single shot ended him.

The fight was fast and furious. These thugs were no match for Iron Man. It had been a stroke of good fortune for Lahey that Stark had been unconscious all this time; had he summoned his armor to him minutes ago, _none _of this would have happened. As it stood, Clint let his rage rush over him, and with a vengeance he tore through the mercenaries who'd hurt them. And a moment later, when it was finished, black-clad bodies lay strewn through the destroyed work area, and equipment lay burning and smoldering.

Alarms were wailing. The whirring noise was thunderous. Clint turned, Iron Man's eyes glowing menacingly in the smoke and flickering yellow light, and stalked to the console. If Lahey noticed the carnage behind him, it wasn't obvious. His eyes were shifting quickly between the screens displaying Steve's erratic vitals and the monitors before him. Bruce was sitting beside him, his face twisted into a perpetual grimace, his hands gripping the console hard enough that his knuckles were white. "Shut it down," Clint ordered, raising Iron Man's palm repulsor and pointing it at Lahey. "Shut it down!"

"I can't," Lahey answered. His face was bathed in sweat, his brown hair mussed, his eyes wild with hope and fear and a wish for his experiment to work in the face of mounting evidence that it wasn't. "I can't!"

"Damn it," Clint snarled, grabbing for the scientist and wrenching him away, _"shut it down!"_

Bruce turned. Questions flashed in his eyes, but he didn't ask them. There was no time. "He's right," he angrily announced. "The computer's locked. The reactor needs to cycle through."

Steve screamed in agony, and Clint finally could see what was happening. Radiation was filling the chamber. Yellow lights flashed warnings all around them. The chamber was empty aside from Steve, and he was strapped still to the table. He was convulsing violently, nearly shaking the entire apparatus apart with his unhinged and uncoordinated strength. Blood dripped from the table to the floor, but Clint couldn't see from where it was coming. His left arm had broken free, and it was clenching and unclenching spastically, struggling mindlessly against unseen demons. The alarms were coming from the computers monitoring his vitals. Tachycardia. Hyperventilation. His blood pressure was dangerously high. He was dying.

_No!_ "Will the suit protect me?" Clint asked as he pointed the palm repulsor toward the glass windows of the chamber. "Will it?"

"Yes, but I would not recommend that, sir," Stark's AI calmly advised.

"No, Clint!" Bruce hollered, standing and grabbing the archer's armor-clad shoulder. "Don't! You'll flood the whole lab!"

Iron Man's HUD was filled with radiation warnings, numbers and figures that Clint didn't have the time or patience to understand beyond the crushing fact that exposure would be lethal. He let loose a cry of frustration, of absolute fury, and rounded on Lahey. "You son of a bitch! _You son of a bitch!_" One swipe of his arm sent the bastard flying back. He collided with another work bench and slid across it before collapsing in heap to the floor, dazed and bleeding. The lab techs cowering in the opposite corner of the room huddled together and screamed, afraid of Clint's wrath as Iron Man glared at them. _They should be. They all should be._

But his rage paled in comparison to his fear and worry. He looked back to Bruce. "What do we do?" he asked breathlessly.

Bruce seemed sick and on the brink again. Guilt twisted his face. Guilt and pain. "There isn't anything we can do."

"How long?"

"Two minutes," Bruce answered. His eyes were filled with frustrated tears. "Another two minutes."

Another two minutes was an eternity. The Hulk would survive radiation exposure of this intensity. Clint supposed, safe in the suit of armor, he would as well. But not Lahey or any of the soldiers still living or the lab techs or Tony. And there wasn't enough time to get them all out to a safe distance. They couldn't risk all those lives for one, no matter how much they wanted to and no matter how much the evil in the room deserved to suffer. So the two of them stood stiffly, watching in helpless horror as Steve suffered. Steve wasn't quite conscious anymore, seizing in the restraints. He didn't have the strength or oxygen left in his damaged body to scream. His strained wheezing, every breath married with a moan, was somehow louder than the whirring of the reactor and the wailing of the alarms. _Hold on,_ Clint implored, watching as Steve's violent seizures began to still and then stop. Watching as the jagged lines of his racing pulse smoothed and slow. He saw where the blood was coming from now. Steve coughed and it splattered from his lips. It dribbled from his nose and ears. _Hold on._ _Hold on!_

The monitors blared again with a new warning. It was a sudden and devastating transition. His heartbeat was unsteady and halting. Slowing. And a second later, he flat lined. His heart had completely stopped. He was in cardiac arrest.

"No! Steve! Don't do this!" Clint shook his head in wild desperation, his eyes glued to Steve's body. His chest wasn't moving anymore. He was deathly still. "Steve!" he cried, reaching over the console and slamming a fist to the reinforced glass. "_Steve!_"

"Thirty seconds," Bruce whispered.

"Steve, please," Clint begged. He bowed his head, unable to watch. It was unbearable. "_Please…_"

"I tried," Bruce whispered. "I thought maybe more Gamma would speed the reaction along before the drug became fatal… I thought that might be better than letting the drug kill him. Maybe there would be a chance." Clint wasn't sure if he was talking to him or simply talking for confession's sake. "But there was no way, no way. I didn't know. I didn't know. I needed more time. God, forgive me… I tried… I swear I did." His words died and he trembled. Iron Man's display was bombarding Clint with information, projecting survival rates given the number of rads of radiation the reactor was producing. It had been a fatal exposure. Why had Bruce used so much? _Why?_ Clint had no answer. No rationalization or justification. It wasn't Bruce's fault. He wanted to believe that. But he couldn't make himself say it. There was _nothing_ to say.

The countdown finally reached zero, and the reactor powered down. It took another few horrendously long seconds for the computer to release the locks on the chamber. Clint raced to the doors, waiting impatiently for them to open. Once they did, he charged through the clean room and inside. "Get the restraints off!" Bruce shouted from outside. Clint wasted no time in doing that, rushing to the table that Bruce was lowering down again with the exterior controls. Clint swallowed thickly, not brave enough to look at the body before him, removing the cuffs from Steve's feet as fast as he could. He yanked the straps clear off the table. The cuff around Steve's right wrist had been bent and damaged by his struggling; thankfully with Iron Man's increased strength the metal gave way with one mighty pull. Then he gathered Steve's limp body in his arms and carried him out.

Once outside of the chamber, he immediately dropped to his knees, cradling Steve against him. There were things going on around him. The chamber had sealed itself again. There was the crack of gunfire down the hall. Screaming and fighting and boots thundering on the floor. Bruce racing to his side but not touching either of them. Other alarms shrilly screaming about radiation exposure. Words and frantic questions. But none of it mattered.

Clint still tried not to look, not wanting to believe, but he had to. And when he did, it was undeniable. Steve's blue eyes were half-lidded and unblinking and empty. Blood, a deep, dark red, languidly dripped from his parted lips. Everywhere his skin was splotchy and mottled by burst capillaries and internal damage. His chest was still. There was no breath, no heartbeat. He was gone. He had been dead long before Clint had reached him.

Clint choked on a sob, holding his friend tightly against him, lowering Iron Man's helmet to Steve's forehead. His breath was so loud inside the suit, a fast-paced rush of quivering air against the dark confines of the helmet. Suddenly this armor that had felt empowering, like goddamn salvation, was a claustrophobic hell that was suffocating him. He needed to get it off. He needed to do something. Steve didn't deserve to die like this. The metal arms around him were too cold, too cruel. He needed to take the suit off!

But he didn't. Everything was contaminated, and it was already too late.

Familiar voices reached through the vortex of meaningless sight and sound and sensation. "Stark? Stark!" It was Natasha. Where had she come from? The mess of jagged thoughts in his head couldn't come up with an explanation. The rest of the STRIKE Team was behind her, guns raised and eyes hard. They were securing the area. He saw red hair and a black suit and blue eyes steeped in confusion and worry. "Stark?"

"It's me," Clint sadly announced. "Stark needs help. He's… uh… Back there." His voice failed him.

Natasha was pale. Her eyes widened in horror. "Oh my God. We need the medical team here! _Hurry!_" She shook her head, holstering her weapon. "Clint, what happened? Rogers isn't…"

"He's dead," Clint said roughly. Tears bled from his eyes behind Iron Man's mask. Natasha made to reach for him, but he jerked away, taking Steve's limp body with him. "Don't touch us! Get back!"

Natasha whispered something in Russian, her eyes wide and frightened and then filled with disgusted fury. But that was nothing compared to the roar from her left as Bruce at long last _lost it_.

The lab shook as the Hulk let go of his rage. There was a dark shadow and a blur of green as the monster took a single, gigantic step toward where Lahey had fallen. He screamed again, deep and violent, and reached down and grabbed Lahey by the throat. Natasha's eyes were mired in fear as the SHIELD agents immediately trained their guns on Banner. "Stand down!" she shouted. The Hulk was unhinged, driven by emotion, dragging Lahey off the floor and throwing him into the wall. A bone-crunching thud resounded. "Doctor Banner! Stop! _Stand down!_"

Clint watched the nightmare continuing before him, dazed and dead and uncaring. He stopped fighting and let the pain wash over him. Pain from his damaged ribs and shot shoulder. Pain from his aching heart, so heavy and miserable in his chest. There was fighting and screaming and guns firing. He was gone from it. He looked down at Steve's still, gray face. He reached metal fingers towards his eyelids to pull them down.

Steve's hand snapped up and grabbed his wrist. Clint couldn't help himself. He screamed.

The dead body in his arm seized hard and then leaned up and gasped. Steve choked and gagged and pulled away and Clint was too stunned to do anything other than let him go. He rolled to the left, spitting blood and coughing, and clambered to his feet. He looked around wildly with terrified, confused, bright blue eyes. Eyes that were _alive_. Lungs that were breathing and a heart that was beating. _He was alive._ He wiped the blood from his mouth and nose and looked at it like he didn't know what it was or how it had come to be there. "What? What's going on?"

Clint had no idea. He stood slowly, shaking in surprise, and then the Hulk's roar vibrated the lab again and Steve was running across the room. "Bruce! _Bruce!_" The Hulk had Lahey pinned against the wall, a humongous green fist raised and ready to descend. Bullets peppered the beast's back as the SHIELD agents tried to stop him, but no one could. The situation was out of control. It always had been, and more blood was about to be spilled for this insanity. The Hulk was going to crush Lahey. He was going to kill him. "No!"

And Steve caught the Hulk's fist in both of his hands and pushed back with all his might.

The monster's eyes stared into Steve's. "I'm okay," Steve gasped to Bruce. There was not an ounce of doubt in his voice. "I'm okay! It's alright!"

The world was still for a long moment as Steve held back the incredible power of the Hulk. Those enraged black eyes held fast, clearly trapped by the desire to kill, the ardent need for vengeance. For _anything_ to fill the pit of hurt and fury and grief inside Bruce that was aching and empty and hungry. But reality, as crazy as it was, sunk in and drove back the pain. The monster was gone in a blink.

Clint could hardly believe it. The Hulk shrunk back into Banner, green skin fading to healthy, pink flesh, the bulk of muscles and madness disappearing and leaving a man who was hunched and breathing heavily in the tattered remains of his clothes. Steve somehow managed a feeble smile – _what the hell what the hell how is this possible?_ – and then gently pulled Banner closer to him in a shaking hug. "I'm okay," he swore softly. "I'm alright."

The lab was silent. Nobody moved. "Holy shit," Clint whispered again.

What in the world had just happened?


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER:** _Iron Man 3, The Incredible Hulk,_ _Captain America: The First Avenger,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Just a warning for the rest of the story that some of Bruce's past (and Steve's past) I'll be making up based off of what's in the comics and what's in the movies. Enjoy and thanks for reading!

**UNSUSTAINABLE**

**5**

Bruce was downright confused. Totally at a loss. It took a lot to stump him, to leave him completely bereft of a plausible explanation. But this… This had rather effectively managed it.

"I'm okay," Steve said yet again as the nurses and doctors surrounded him. They were swarming him, and they had been since the Avengers been rescued from the lab and taken to the SHIELD office just outside of Times Square a few hours ago. He sat clad only in his underwear, more exposed and vulnerable than Bruce thought would be comfortable for him after what happened, and he was willingly subjecting himself to countless tests. The doctors were running them in rapid succession, blood work and x-rays and MRIs and PET scans. They had hooked Steve up to an EEG and EKG. They had run every analysis available multiple times to double check and triple check, extracting vial after vial of blood from the soldier, performing muscle and skin and bone biopsies, searching for clues. As he always was, however, Steve was true to his word: he _was_ okay. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with him. He looked a tad pale, and there were two pink spots on each temple and a dozen or more along his spine where he'd been injected in the chamber. A few bruises lined his wrists and ankles where he'd struggled against the restraints of that horrible table in the lab. But other than that he seemed _perfectly_ healthy. His vital signs were all completely normal. There was no evidence of stress on his body, his heart and lungs and other organs functioning well within ordinary limits (which were extraordinary limits compared to everyone else). There were no obvious changes to his physiology; it would take more time for genetic results to come back, but the infirmary's biomedical sensors hadn't detected anything aberrant or worrisome or even different from his last physical a few months ago. Nobody seemed to know what to make of it.

For a man who'd died of radiation exposure and cardiac arrest, he seemed remarkably well.

Maybe it was a miracle. Bruce didn't find that terribly comforting. Neither did Barton apparently, for the archer had stayed close to Steve the entire time the doctors had run their gamut of tests. His own arm had been tended, stitched and bandaged and put into a sling, and a few nurses had wrapped his bruised ribs. He looked worn and white and exhausted, pained if the tight lines about his eyes and mouth were any indication, but he'd silently refused to move away or even sit. He was a stalwart sentinel standing guard over a close friend he'd nearly lost. He was out of the way, watching from behind the physicians as they worked, but his presence was determined and unwavering.

Steve had been quiet and compliant through all this, but Bruce could see now that his patience was starting to wear thin. He'd allowed them to examine him thoroughly, sat still as they'd veritably drained the blood out of his body, reacted with outstanding and mind-numbing composure considering the trauma he'd just endured. He'd even suffered through a spinal tap, which seemed warranted considering Lahey's drug had been introduced into the CSF, and the procedure hadn't been pleasant given his immunity to all forms of anesthesia and analgesics. Still, when a nurse came with another series of vials in her hands and an apologetic look plastered all over her young face, he just shook his head and pulled his arm away. "I'm _fine_," he insisted, his tone tense. "This is getting a little ridiculous. There's nothing wrong. I feel fine."

Clint shook his head, sharing a glance with Bruce. His eyes shone in unmasked worry. "Steve, you died."

The enormity of that simple statement was painful, and Steve winced. He opened his mouth to protest or refute it, but he couldn't. He'd said earlier that he remembered everything that had happened in the chamber, down to the excruciating pain of the Gamma radiation exposure, but after that things had gotten blurry and indistinct. He'd "blacked out", as he'd put it, before awakening in Clint's arms, apparently unaware of what had happened, of how very serious the situation had gotten. His lungs had stopped. His heart had stopped. The radiation destroyed his organs, the damage caused by Dan's drug aside. He had been _dead_, dead beyond the point of resuscitation, and he had been that way for more than just a few seconds. For minutes. That was unbelievable and distressing to say the least.

Bruce knew more about the super soldier serum than most, probably more than anyone else alive. There were a lot of mysteries about it: how to recreate it, how it truly functioned, how far it could be pushed. This had gone some ways to answer that last question, but even still, Bruce didn't think the serum could have repaired that magnitude of systemic damage, that amount of widespread cellular destruction, let alone so quickly. And he knew Steve was strong, the strongest human on earth, but he didn't think Rogers could normally stand against the Hulk like he had. He was loathed to admit it, but he believed Dan had been right: if anyone could have survived that procedure, surely it was Captain America. The serum afforded Steve amazing resilience and regeneration, and that had been the exact thought process that had driven Bruce to apply more radiation earlier in the experiment. Maybe that had kickstarted whatever reaction Dan had wanted to see. Maybe it had worked. And maybe Steve's innate healing and strength had been amplified by some combination of the radiation and adrenaline. He would never know unless he looked at Steve's test results.

_No._ He wasn't going to do that. He wasn't going to look at any more data associated with this nightmare. To hell with figuring it out.

But even as his heart yelled no, his mind kept crunching at it. Whatever Dan's drug had been meant to do, there was no sign of it in Steve's system now. So either it had done nothing and his body had flushed it or the effects had been transient. _Or they haven't happened yet. _Acknowledging that was even more distressing than acknowledging that Steve had died.

Steve sighed, apparently unwilling to acknowledge much of anything. "I'm a little tired," he said, as though he thought that admitting he wasn't totally one hundred percent would allay their anxiety. He forced some measure of bravado into his voice. "And sore. But it's nothing. I'm fine. Aren't I?" He looked at Bruce for confirmation and clearly expected it without reservation.

Bruce didn't know what to say. He didn't want to be doubtful, to cast some measure of reality on this seeming fantasy of everyone emerging alive and unscathed, but he had to be honest with himself. He wasn't sure if Steve was okay or if he would be. He wasn't sure of anything. Still, Rogers was trusting him to deliver some sort of answer, so he said what he could. "Everything's coming back normal." It was almost as if Steve was betrayed by his placating words. At that, the guilt that had been plaguing him since coming back from the suffocating grip of the Hulk grew sharper and more intense. The logical part of his mind told him he'd been helpless, a pawn, a goddamn tool in Dan's schemes. The rational part of him knew there'd been no choice, not with Tony so seriously injured and Clint bound and threatened as he had been. But guilt wasn't rational by any means. It didn't abide by facts or truths or reason. And he felt so miserably ashamed that he almost hadn't come back here after slipping out sometime ago to check on Tony. Dan was his colleague, his friend, and he'd suspected something had been wrong but he hadn't stopped it. It had been his faulty calculations, his flawed science, that had exposed Steve to a fatal amount of Gamma radiation (and seemingly for nothing, which was more aggravating and disgusting). He'd hurt Steve and helped a madman experiment on another person, on a living, breathing human being. He'd been unwilling, yes, but he'd still done it. And if Steve hadn't miraculously come back to them, Bruce would have been responsible for his death.

A simple "it's not your fault" really wasn't going to absolve him. As a scientist, what he'd done was morally detestable. Even if nobody held him responsible, even if Steve, as good-natured and self-sacrificing as he was, didn't blame him, Bruce blamed himself. This was going to become another scar on his psyche, another thing he carried around with him. Another wound that bled anger like poison. The thing was he'd become so efficient at seeming calm and in control that he could fool everyone, even himself. So he swallowed down the poison of his shame like it was nothing and donned the visage of a caring friend. "You took a huge shock to your system, Steve," he said. "It needs to be checked out."

Steve's face abruptly turned unreadable, stony and rigid, and Bruce couldn't help but feel waves of guilt break against his heart. It was hard to stand still, to not waver or retreat or hide. He shied away from confrontation; that was the way he'd learned to control and protect himself. Was he imagining the anger shining in Steve's eyes? Was the pain and hatred real or just a product of his own conscience? In a blink that hard look was gone, and Steve sagged wearily in submission. He held his arm out to the nurse, who'd been watching the exchange with a wide, frightened gaze. She hesitated a moment more until Steve gave her a small nod. She set her supplies to the hospital bed beside her patient and snapped blue nitrile gloves on her hands before preparing to draw Steve's blood again. Clint came a little closer at seeing Steve's slumped shoulders and downcast expression. Maybe Steve had known that these efforts he'd made to brush this ordeal aside like it was nothing were silly and futile, but having that thrown in his face was obviously dismaying. Clint set his unhurt hand to Steve's broad shoulder and tugged him just a little closer for comfort. Bruce hadn't thought the hardened sharpshooter capable of such unimposing tenderness. "You're okay," Clint promised with half an encouraging grin.

Steve nodded and drew a deep breath. He hardly reacted as the nurse stuck the needle in his vein. "How's Stark?"

Bruce was grateful the subject of the conversation had turned from Steve and what had been done to him. He released a slow breath. "He'll be alright. The bullet wasn't as close to his spinal cord as I feared. They got it out during surgery. He's in recovery." It was remarkable, really, considering how close Tony had come to dying. It was downright flabbergasting that the four of them had walked away from their hellish experience alive and relatively unscathed. He'd been a little reticent to leave Tony alone in the intensive care ward. It was difficult to see him so pale and so weak and so _quiet_. Stark was loud and rambled a mile a minute and never sat still, so watching the motionless, silent body lying in a hospital bed hooked up to a wall of medical machinery and plugged into numerous IVs was disturbing. And even though Bruce _knew_ he'd be okay, he couldn't shake the fear that he wouldn't be. At least Pepper had been there, having come immediately once SHIELD had contacted her about Tony's condition. Bruce didn't know how much she knew of what had happened, but she hadn't asked him about it. She'd been scared and worried but so wonderfully calm and tender as she'd taken up vigil in a chair beside Tony's bed, so he hadn't fretted about leaving Stark in her hands. "He'll be off his feet for a while, but there won't be any long term damage."

"That's good," Steve said. He offered Bruce a faint smile. "You saved his life."

Coming from anyone else, he would have argued. He was in no mood to be coddled or to have the obvious burden of shame lifted away from his shoulders. Steve was sincere, so much so that it was almost difficult for Bruce to stay still under his open and grateful gaze. Things were a bit hazy from the panic and terror and the Hulk's consuming rage banging constantly against his mind, but Steve's calm words and strong hands and soothing presence he remembered very clearly. Rogers had been a rock during it all, steady and sure, and he'd offered up his strength and encouragement to Bruce as easily as he'd offered up his body to Dan. Of them all, Steve had the most reason to be angry, but he wasn't, at least not so much that it was noticeable. He had never let his emotions get the better of him, never faltered in the face of his fear or succumbed to the fires of his rage. Bruce couldn't fathom so much restraint and control. Steve had been so calm, so focused on the logical choices, acting as a shield between Bruce and the Hulk as much as he had been one between Lahey's threats and Clint and Tony. He'd sacrificed himself without a moment of doubt. That was intimidating. Everything about him was intimidating. And this whole incident had only caused all of Bruce's insecurities to resurface.

Bruce managed to push them all back down. "You did, too," he answered, feeling uncomfortable and so damn raw that it was hard not to run from this. It was hard to say what needed to be said, what a good friend would say to someone who'd saved him. "Thanks for what you did back there for him. And for me."

Steve smiled again. "You're welcome." He wasn't dismissive, but to him what he'd done wasn't a big deal. It was _never_ a big deal. He was Captain America, and saving people was what Captain America did. _Perfection_. Physical, mental, and emotional perfection. Some part of Bruce wanted to cry.

The doors to the infirmary swished open. Natasha Romanoff and Maria Hill entered. They both looked stoic, though Romanoff darted a questioning glance toward Barton that Steve didn't notice. Bruce watched Clint give a little nod, dropping his hand from Steve's shoulder and gingerly trading his weight to his other leg. The two women came to stand in front of Steve's bed, Hill bearing a tablet computer. She finished tapping her fingers to it and looked up at Rogers. "Fury's on his way down," she announced. Steve didn't look pleased, and Hill shook her head. "You can't expect him to not be concerned. Four of the Avengers were held hostage by a relative nobody. That tends to put up red flags around here. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. I assume you took Doctor Lahey into custody?"

Hill seemed slightly surprised at how easily Steve was talking about all of this. Defense mechanisms came in many forms, but Bruce thought denial and detachment were among the most effective. "He's down in interrogation. We've got agents crawling through Lahey's lab and the rest of his so-called research institute. The analysts at the Hub are running everything they can through the computers to try and get a better picture of what actually went on before you guys stumbled into his world. We also ran identity checks on the men who helped him do this. They were mostly mercenaries from the Balkans and Turkey. No shortage of guns for hire over there."

Bruce shook his head. "How the hell would Dan know how to get in contact with people like that?" The SHIELD agents looked at him like he was crazy, and maybe he was because some part of him still couldn't quite believe that Dan Lahey, the self-proclaimed pacifist who had never stood up for himself while the other post-docs and even his students at Culver ridiculed him, could have orchestrated something like this. He couldn't fathom how someone who'd hardly been able to make eye contact with anyone he found even the slightest bit intimidating could shoot a man, take another hostage, and experiment on a third. Not to mention all of the people who'd been his prior test subjects who he'd murdered. And it wasn't just that Lahey had done these things. The moral consequences had been completely nonexistent to him. Bruce's mind raced, going back over those long and difficult minutes, trying to understand. "He said he was experimenting on himself. Said he'd transformed himself into this new Dan Lahey."

That didn't sit well with any of them. "I've tried talking to him," Natasha said, folding her arms across her chest. Bruce wondered with a grimace what Black Widow meant by "talking". "But he's not cooperating. I'm not sure he's doing it intentionally. He's out of his mind hysterical. It could all be an act, but he's refused to say anything until he can talk to you, Bruce."

Bruce felt something inside him shrivel. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"It might be our only chance to get through to him." The new voice from the entrance of the infirmary drew their attention, and Nick Fury, as tall, dark, and imposing as ever, strolled through the main doors. He was dressed in black leather, and his one eye was narrowed with disdain. Obviously this entire mess had frustrated him, but his glare softened as he approached their small group. He appraised his top agents sadly, one more sadly than the others. "You alright, Cap?"

Steve nodded. If he was at all irritated at being asked yet again how he was doing, he didn't show it in front of Fury. "What does it matter what Lahey has to say?" Clint asked, glancing between Bruce and Fury. "The evidence is pretty compelling that the guy is crazy. He belongs in a box. A really goddamn small one."

"Unfortunately, it's not that simple. Doctor Banner is right. By all accounts, he should not have had the means, financial or otherwise, to build a project like this," Hill explained. "As you know we have hints that his resources link back to AIM, and that makes sense given his hiring of the mercs involved in what happened, but we have no idea who or what is really behind this."

"Unless you think this drug he used on himself could have empowered him enough to do something like this on his own," Fury said.

That statement was directed at Bruce. Honestly, he wasn't even sure _what_ Dan's drug did. Steve had had a hell of a dose of it, and it hadn't seemed to affect him. And this concept of molding emotions to build a different man? One didn't _need_ drugs to do that. Chemicals could indeed affect the brain; they acted as mood stabilizers, altered a man's perceptions of reality and himself, relaxed the body and mind or heightened sensations. The entirety of brain function was based upon tiny packets of chemical compounds flying between cells, neurons firing in an immeasurably complex and delicate balance. That balance was susceptible to interference, interference that produced widespread and sometimes unpredictable results. But fundamentally changing a man's personality from a shy, reticent, socially inept whipping boy to a bold, callous, psychotic madman? Drugs could certainly do that, but were they necessary? This was why Bruce (and many of Lahey's detractors over the years) had thought so lowly of his science. The boundary between emotions and personality and _spirit_ (for a lack of a better term) and biology were so poorly defined, which in turn made quantitatively measuring the effects of this drug or that medication extraordinarily difficult (and, to make it even worse, subjective since emotions were inherently bound to a person).

But all that was neither here nor there. "No, I don't think he did this alone."

"Which leads us back to AIM, or whatever is left of it. This is twice in six months they created a scientist insane and capable enough to cause something dangerous to happen. We got lucky that this ended alright." Fury looked displeased. "Obviously these guys are out there, hiding in the shadows. Stark shutting down Aldrich Killian just knocked a cog out of a machine. I want to know who built the machine and who's pouring fuel into it."

"Lahey didn't seem interested in doing someone else's dirty work," Barton said. "He was obsessed with his own craziness."

"Obsession can be a useful tool," Fury returned, "something we can turn against him, which is why I'd like for you to speak with him, Doctor Banner." Bruce couldn't help but stiffen slightly. Fury eyed him calmly, forlornly even. Apologetically. "He seems to have it in his head that you care about his science. That you were in it with him."

Bruce shook his head emphatically. Maybe he didn't need to defend himself, but he couldn't stop the words from leaving his mouth. "I don't. I wasn't." His eyes flew to Steve, expecting to find the soldier glaring at him questioningly, but Steve was sitting quietly with his eyes blankly focused on the needle drawing the blood from his arm. He seemed deflated, not upset exactly, but not entirely committed to what was going on around him, either. A million miles away. He might have been trying to hide behind a brave front, but he was shaken. Deeply so.

"Of course you weren't," Fury quietly answered instead, "and nobody believes you were except him. It's a way in and that's all. If you can get him talking about the science, maybe we can learn something about what it was he was trying to do. And if not that, something about who hired him to do it." Bruce didn't know what to think or feel at this point. He was exhausted, and he'd foolishly hoped his involvement in this nightmare had already ended. He didn't want to go any further, participate anymore. He didn't want to consult or offer his opinions or help with any analysis. He just wanted to go back to the relative safety of Stark Tower and tinker and putter around with his plants and _hide_. _Denial and detachment._ Pretty effective.

Fury sighed before stepping closer to Bruce. "Look, doc, I can't force you to talk to him. After what he did, I appreciate that you want to walk away. But I suspect you might want answers as badly as I do. And if…" He dropped his tone, although why he bothered Bruce couldn't say. Steve could surely hear him. His senses went far beyond those of a normal man. "If there's something to be learned about what he did, we need to learn it sooner rather than later."

Bruce wanted to deny that. He really, _really_ did. He was scared of what he might discover. He was even more scared of losing control again. However, Fury was right and he knew it. And he was nothing if not a pragmatist. If Dan was asking for him, he needed to go. He needed to do what he could to make this right. "Alright," he agreed.

Fury nodded. He tried to hide his relief, but Bruce was too perceptive to miss it. "Agent Romanoff will go with you. You won't be alone with him just in case." _Just in case of what? I lose it? Or he does?_

"If you don't mind, sir," Clint said, stepping away from Steve's bed. "I'd like to go as well."

Fury appraised Barton sternly for a second, but the archer was tall and steadfast in his request. A moment passed before Fury nodded. "Permission granted. Kid gloves, Agent Barton."

"Yes, sir," Clint responded. If he was at all bothered by the reminder, he didn't show it. A black jacket with the SHIELD emblem on its shoulder was laid across the bed beside Steve's, and Barton turned to it, slipping his uninjured arm into one sleeve and shrugging into the garment without so much as a wince.

While Clint did that, Steve pressed a piece of gauze over the small, bleeding hole in his arm as the nurse moved away with her samples. "I'll watch from outside," he said.

Now Fury did look doubtful. "I can't let you do that."

"He won't be able to see me." That was probably the case, and it was a sensible precaution since Steve's presence could incite Lahey like a vampire smelling fresh blood. It sounded like a reprehensibly bad idea to allow Dan any access to Rogers. And he might have been acting completely calm and controlled, but there was no telling how Steve might behave faced with the man who'd experimented on him like he'd been nothing more than a convenient test subject and then killed him. Even Captain America had limits. He had to.

The Director actually looked uncomfortable for a second, as if he was being forced to admit something he didn't want to admit. "It's not that. You need to stay here until they clear you."

Steve's brow creased in frustration. "They're done, aren't they?" He turned a hard, expectant look toward the doctor in charge of his care, challenging him to disagree. "Aren't you?"

The doctor, a middle-aged man named Wright, was flustered at being put on the spot by his patient. He glanced among his colleagues and assistants and touched the pad in his hand a few times. He pushed his glasses up on his nose nervously. "We've run through every test we could, Director. Captain Rogers seems completely healthy, although I'd honestly like someone with more knowledge of the serum to take a look at these figures. To me they seem well within normal parameters, but I might have missed something more subtle." Wright winced in embarrassment. "This is honestly the first time I've performed some of these analyses on serum-enhanced tissue and fluids. And the genetic results aren't back yet and won't be for a day or two. An expert should take a look at that as well."

Steve apparently hadn't heard any part of that other than "completely healthy". "See? They're finished." He stood, his bare feet stepping to the gleaming tiled floor. He reached for a pile of SHIELD issue sweats that rested on the chair beside his bed and started getting dressed. "This is my mission, and I'd like to see it through."

Fury clenched his jaw. "You can't. I need to relieve you of duty, Cap."

Steve stiffened, halting for a brief moment with his arms half in the sleeves of his undershirt and his head partway through as well. The muscles of his back and chest tightened. Bruce watched as Barton and Romanoff shared another look, this one beset with frustrated helplessness, and Hill made a point of returning her attention to her tablet. Steve pulled the shirt down over his torso. He stuffed his legs into the gray pants and then stood to his full, impressive height. "You don't need to do that. I'm fit for duty," he calmly answered, but his eyes were teeming with hurt and anger and betrayal. "I am, Nick. I swear to you that there's nothing wrong with me."

"You're probably right," Fury conceded. "But until we know what really happened, I need you to sit things out. Once we're sure everything is fine, you're back in." Bruce had to imagine that Captain America was among SHIELD's greatest assets, and he got the impression that Steve working for SHIELD was more an agreement than employment, so upsetting Rogers wasn't in their best interest. But it would be worse to let Steve out into another dangerous situation ignorant of the true nature of his condition. If there was a condition at all, and right then all signs indicated there wasn't one.

Steve was still. He stared obstinately at Fury for a tense a moment, every hard line of his body radiating his displeasure with this situation. It was like a battle of wills between the SHIELD Director and the super soldier, and it went on for what felt like forever. Eventually Steve released a long sigh and looked down. He was a soldier, through and through, and as long as Fury was above him in the chain of command, he'd follow orders. "Yes, sir."

Fury nodded in appreciation. His face immediately softened in relief. "Don't worry. We'll get this figured out as soon as possible."

Steve didn't look appeased. He reached a hand to his ear and wiped at the dried blood that was still crusted there in disgust. After being poked and prodded and thoroughly assessed for hours, he couldn't bear to be still any longer. He reached down to the other side of the bed and grabbed his shield. One of the STRIKE agents had recovered it from the lab and brought it to him a few hours ago. "Is it okay if I leave? I'd like to get cleaned up. Maybe get some sleep." Somehow Bruce doubted he would be able to sleep. But there was really no reason he needed to stay in the infirmary. Bruce didn't think Fury could keep Steve there – especially not in light of what had happened to him – and he really didn't want to see the SHIELD Director try. He hoped for Steve's sake Fury would recognize all of that.

He did. "Sure. Get some rest."

Steve moved away without so much as a glance at Bruce. Bruce knew he shouldn't but he took that personally, took it as a sign that Steve _did _blame him, if not for what had happened then for being stripped of his competence. Stripped yet again of his control over what happened to him. Clint stepped closer to Rogers for a moment, murmuring something softly to his friend. Steve nodded and grasped the archer's shoulder affectionately. "It'll be alright, Cap. Just take it easy. We have this," Romanoff promised, her face stern and confident but her eyes shining in compassion.

He was gone a breath after that. Bruce watched him leave, feeling increasingly ashamed and angry again. This wasn't fair. Nothing about this was fair. Nothing about this was right.

Natasha was in front of him, drawing his attention. "You ready to do this, doc?"

"No, but let's get it over with before I change my mind."

"Just stay cool."

_Easier said than done._

* * *

Dan slouched in a gray, metal chair inside a large interrogation room. The walls were a smooth, dark gray devoid of textures, seams, and weaknesses. The ceiling was the same aside from a few recessed light fixtures spreading bright, blaring illumination over the prisoner and the table at which he sat. There was a large window next to the solitary entrance, the gleaming glass a one-way view inside the cell. It was a steel box, impenetrable and inescapable. The sort of place SHIELD held its most violent offenders: terrorists, dictators, mass murderers. Evil men who caused maximum destruction and casualties simply because they enjoyed it. Seeing his old friend there, flanked by two armed agents, was alarming to say the least.

"It goes without saying," Natasha said as they watched through the window in the small antechamber outside the room, "but let's keep any sensitive information about Rogers to a minimum." Bruce stared numbly, distantly, trying to summon up the calm strength that these SHIELD agents and Steve brandished so easily. "Okay, Bruce?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." Clint opened the door. Natasha strolled nonchalantly inside and Bruce followed, adrenaline surging through him. Clint shut the door behind him and rested his good hand against the handle of the gun in the holster about his thigh.

Dan didn't turn, tapping his fingers on the gleaming, metallic table. "Doctor Lahey," Natasha called. She stepped around the table to look at Lahey's face. Hers was damn near unreadable, calm but there was just a hint of power and anger in her stoic, blue eyes. After all, this man had kidnapped two SHIELD agents, two of their own, and hurt them both. Barton just looked flat-out disgusted, like he'd be more than willing to save everyone the money, time, and effort required to try and imprison this lunatic. But he only moved to the other side of the table, a dark wraith glaring malevolently. Natasha folded her arms across her chest. "Doctor Banner is here."

Dan immediately wrenched around. His face was badly bruised from his run-in with the Hulk and Iron Man's fist. His nose had clearly been broken, and he sported a nasty-looking black eye. His hair was mussed, and his fine clothes were rumpled. But at seeing Bruce his bloodied lips pulled into a huge, relieved smile. He was missing a couple of teeth. "Bruce! Oh, great. Great. Now we can talk."

Maybe it was stupid, but Bruce's feet wouldn't move him any further into the room. They felt like they were utterly glued to the floor. He worked his hands nervously together, battered by such a storm of emotion that he didn't know how to feel. All he knew was he needed to keep calm. The two guards eyed him warily. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Everything," Dan said excitedly. Lahey cut right to the chase. "Is he still alive?"

Right away this had veered into territory Bruce didn't like. He glanced at Natasha on the other side of the table, but she offered a slight nod. "Yes."

Dan's face broke in such an expression of euphoria and pride that Bruce thought he was going to be sick just looking at it. "I knew it," he murmured, his eyes glazed in absolute joy. He slammed his hand to the table in excitement, a loud bang echoing through the vacuous room that made Bruce flinch. "I knew it!" He laughed loudly. "I knew it would work! I knew I was right!"

Clint beside Dan in a blink. Bruce wasn't even sure he saw him move. The archer was leaning down over the scientist with a stare that would have made anyone shrivel in terror. "Let's get something straight, you sick piece of shit," he hissed. "What you did today? It wasn't science. It was _torture_." Dan's eyes widened in fear, and he stilled his celebrations like ice had frozen over him. Clint positioned himself over Dan's shoulder. "You strapped my friend down on a table and experimented on him. There aren't words to describe how much that pisses me off. You're going away for a long, _long_ time. And you are never, _ever_ going to so much as _look_ at Captain Rogers again."

Dan didn't blink or even twitch as Clint threatened him, but Bruce could see he was scared witless. This was the first time since this had started that Dan seemed afraid. Regretful of what he had done, but not because he thought it was wrong. Because he was scared of what would happen to him. The silence that followed was rife with the threat of violence. "Clint," Natasha called softly. Clint leaned back up and looked at her. She shook her head slightly, and he backed away. "We're not here to talk about what you did to Captain Rogers, Doctor," she reminded.

"Just tell me if it worked," Dan softly implored. "I just need to know that."

"No way in hell," Clint answered tersely. "You don't deserve to know anything."

Natasha braced her hands on the table. "We want you to tell us who you're working for. We're certain your grant didn't come from NIH. And we know that somebody had to put you in contact with the mercenaries you hired. How did you know Captain Rogers and Agent Barton were coming to your lab today?"

"I didn't," Dan said. "I wasn't lying about that."

Clearly Natasha didn't know if that was the truth. Clint obviously thought it wasn't. "You seemed awfully prepared to deal with two SHIELD agents. There's no way you did this by yourself, so you might as well cooperate. It's the only thing you've got left at this point to earn you some leniency," Natasha continued. "AIM is involved. You need to tell us who specifically and where."

"There wasn't anyone specifically," Dan answered. He was getting more and more agitated, but Bruce had a sinking suspicion it wasn't because he didn't know the answers to their questions. It was because he wanted to ask his own.

Natasha came closer. "Talk to us. Now."

Dan opened his hands helplessly on the table. "Hansen contacted me last year, said she had a way to get funding for unorthodox projects. They'd helped her finish something she'd been working on for a long time. Before you ask, she never mentioned anything about Extremis, just that she couldn't get a grant or help from anybody else. We met at a conference on microbiology in Seattle a couple of years before that. She told me I just needed to move to the Hopkins Institute, which I did, and everything would be taken care of, which it was. That's it. They got me the equipment, the lab space, the reactor, the assistants… The only thing I had to give up was the rights to anything I developed."

Perhaps that could be true, but that still didn't explain the firepower. "How did you find the mercs?" Natasha asked.

"I didn't. Somebody else called about a week ago. A woman."

"Did you know her?" Clint asked.

"No. She had an accent of some sort. I don't know. I'm not good with that stuff." He sighed. "She said she knew about the troubles I was having with the Gamma exposure and that she could make sure I got Bruce Banner's help. When I asked how, she just told me not to worry about it. Just to contact Bruce and invite him. Last night the soldiers just showed up at the institute. They told me if I wanted to get my experiment to run, it might require some sacrifices. It was pretty obvious what they meant."

"And you didn't stop to think that it was wrong. You just figured you needed to use Tony against me," Bruce supplied angrily.

"I didn't want to shoot him," Dan claimed. "Just threaten him. That was the plan. But there was no other way I could keep the Hulk, Captain America, and Iron Man under control. I needed to remove Stark out of the equation." Maybe that lent credence to Dan's claim that he really hadn't known that SHIELD had sent Steve and Clint. Had someone else, though? "That's it. I don't have anything else to tell you."

"That's not good enough," Clint said. "I find it hard to believe a man of your intellect could be so monumentally _stupid_ as to think you could do something like this and get away with it. What was your plan after your experiment failed, huh? Where the hell did you think you could go where we wouldn't find you? You shot the world's most recognizable man and nearly killed a national hero."

"I didn't care about getting away with it," Lahey hotly responded. "I only cared about making it work. And it did work. Didn't it?" He turned again to look at Bruce, who still hadn't moved from the door. Bruce drew a deep breath and stood a little taller. This whole thing repulsed him, and the desperate shine in Dan's eyes only made it worse. "Did it work?"

"Eyes here, asshole," Clint snarled. "We're not finished."

But Dan refused to be dissuaded. "Bruce, come on. Did it work?"

He succeeded in goading him into an answer. "I don't know," Bruce finally admitted. He pushed himself away from the wall and came a tad closer. "What was it supposed to do?"

"I told you. It expanded his mind."

Anger coursed over Bruce, hot and demanding, and he felt the Hulk pushing and pushing and _pushing_. "Don't play games with me, Dan! You wanted my help. You made me do something terrible to a man that I consider a friend, and I don't even know why!"

"A friend, huh," Dan said. He leveled cruel eyes on Bruce. "Not just the answer to a question you're too scared to make yourself ask."

Bruce blanched. His heart felt cold and heavy in his chest, like he'd been caught doing something wrong. Dread and shame stabbed ice into his heart. These weak, debilitating feelings didn't last long against his anger. Nothing ever did. "Who the hell are you to judge me?" he asked. Dan didn't answer. "I have questions, sure. I have a lot of questions. But I don't hurt people to answer them!" Lahey's eyes filled with regret for a moment, and he looked away. "I don't kill people to prove that I'm right!"

"It wasn't about me being right," Dan insisted. "It was about the science being right."

Clint looked confused. "There's a difference?"

"Yes! Man evolving from apes. The earth orbiting the sun. Ramming two tiny atoms together and producing enough energy to destroy a city. These things were correct, but at the time they seemed crazy. It doesn't matter what you think of me. I'll gladly be labeled as a lunatic if it gets my point across. All that matters is that what I think is _real_."

"That emotions can alter the world around us?" Clint laughed condescendingly. "Sorry, Doctor, but I call bullshit on that one."

"You have no vision," Lahey countered, shaking his head in self-defense and disgust. "You don't understand what I tried to do."

"Oh, I think I understand," Clint returned icily. "I think you held Captain America down and pumped your poison into his body and flooded him with so much radiation that his lungs bled and his heart stopped beating."

Bruce swallowed through a tight throat, trying not to think about that and the part he'd played in it. Thankfully, Natasha was calm and in control. "You're right, Doctor Lahey," she said, glancing warily at Clint and silently imploring him to back down. "We don't understand. Tell us what you were trying to do."

Lahey sighed, rubbing his fingers together worriedly again. It was as if the enormity of the situation was finally getting through to him, that he'd done something horrendous and unforgivable. "The drug's supposed to augment cerebral capacity. Hugely increase synaptic efficiency. Rewire the brain. I guess that's a good term for it. Rewire it to achieve maximum neurologic output on a cellular level. Like steroids for thought. Like a super serum for the mind."

"Well, it didn't do that," Bruce responded. "And you're damn lucky he didn't die."

At that Dan looked positively crushed, though it wasn't because he'd damaged another person. It was because his experiment _hadn't worked._ He was smart and perceptive and realized right away what Bruce and the SHIELD agents weren't telling him: Steve was alive and _unaffected_ by his drug. "I don't understand it," he whispered. A fat tear escaped his left eye to roll down his battered face. "How… I mean, if he survived, the reaction should have been instantaneous. The infusion into his cells _happened_, and the Gamma should have… I don't understand." Suddenly his blank gaze sharpened, and he looked wildly at Bruce. "You need to get me the data. I need to look at it."

"This is unbelievable," Clint said disparagingly.

Dan went on, uncaring, driven. Obsessed. "Blood results. We need DNA evidence. We should be able to _see_ it in his DNA. It had to work! It had to!"

"It didn't," Bruce argued.

"God damn it, Bruce!" Lahey was up and out of his chair. Clint immediately grabbed his shoulder and shoved him back down roughly, and the two guards had their rifles securely aimed at Dan's chest. Natasha had drawn her gun as well. "This is our opportunity to pioneer something extraordinary! Try to envision what we could learn about the brain and the body and the relationship between them! The connection between the mind and its underlying biology is the greatest frontier of science! Imagine if we could fundamentally explain the chemical and physical underpinnings of thought and reason and emotion. _Of a soul._"

"We can't," Bruce returned. "There are some questions that have no answers."

Dan grew more and more frustrated. "What the hell is that? What happened to you? You used to have ambition and ideas. You used to _think._ The science used to matter to you!"

Bruce shook his head. "It doesn't. Not like this."

Any shred of sanity Lahey might have still had all but disappeared. He choked on a sob, a frustrated, _helpless_ sob. Despite everything, something inside Bruce ached at seeing his friend reduced to this. He knew about obsession. He knew its perversities, its pain and its pleasures, more than most. And he knew how failure hurt, how much low you felt when everything you worked for turned out to be a lie. Turned out to be wrong. When the consequences were vast and awful. In this small way, at least, he commiserated. He sympathized. He pitied the other man for enslaving himself to his theories. Without them, Dan's world had tilted and turned upside down. "You do care, Bruce. I know you do. You want to know what makes one soul good and another bad. You want to know if it can be _fixed_. It drives you mad, not knowing. You've convinced yourself that things just happen and there doesn't have to be a reason, but there _is _a reason and you need to understand it. You need to know how _who_ we are turns us into _what_ we are. You're fooling yourself if you think there isn't an answer! Together you and I can find it!"

That went deep into his heart. It cut through all of his lies and doubts and the promises that he'd made to himself. It went straight to the monster and filled it with power. Bruce held on. _He held on._

Thankfully, Barton had had enough and put a stop to it. "This is a waste of time. He's crazy. He doesn't know anything," he declared to Natasha. "Let them lock him up."

Natasha smoothly cocked an eyebrow, regarding Lahey's shivering form dispassionately, before holstering her gun again and nodding. "Maybe there is an answer, doctor. But you don't have it." She looked to the guards. "Put this monster back in his cage."

Bruce was out the door before the guards could move to escort Lahey back to the detention block. He winced, trying not to hear and trying not to think and trying his damnedest not to _feel_ as Dan's desperate cries echoed through the room. "You can't do this to me! I came so close! So close! Oh, please God… Please… don't take me away! Don't! Bruce! _Bruce!_"

Out in the hallway, Dan's begging was muffled. A breath later, he was silent. Bruce leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and breathing deeply and struggling to rise above it all. The guilt and anger and grief. The sad, _sad_ fact that Dan, as crazy as he was, was right about him.

"Sorry," Natasha said softly. She shared a frustrated, irritated look with Clint. "I really hoped we could get something useful out of him."

"Just make sure he never hurts anyone ever again," Bruce coolly ordered.

"Bruce–"

He was already walking away.

* * *

Bruce couldn't stop thinking about what Dan had said. He was someone who tended to dwell. He knew it and hated it but he really couldn't stop himself. He'd never been able to stop himself. Inevitably his thoughts went to his mistakes, his failings. His shortcomings. He poured over them until even the smallest foible seemed monumental and undefeatable. This bad habit went back to his youth. He'd always been a quiet and reserved child, but since he'd known so much and so many things came easily to him, he expected perfection out of himself. And his father's less than stellar treatment of him had only heightened his own intolerance of himself. Bruce had always needed to know, needed to be the smartest and wisest and the best. He hadn't been lying when he'd told Dan that he had a lot of questions. There were many things he didn't understand. Like how Brian Banner had spent so much of his life trying not to become a monster but, as things often happened, met his fate on the path he'd taken to avoid it. Bruce had spent his life prizing his intelligence, and his intelligence had turned him into a monster, too. Had that been his fate? He didn't believe in things like God or destiny or that everyone got his just desserts; those things were crutches the weak used to justify the things they did or the things that were done to them. But that meant there had to be an explanation. Some scientifically verifiable reason why Steve Rogers had become Captain America, the embodiment of valor, and why Bruce Banner had become the Hulk, the embodiment of rage.

After everything that had happened that day, he didn't want to spend any more time thinking about his mistakes.

He went back to the ICU only to find that Tony had been moved to a private room. His feet directed him there of his own accord because his mind had frankly checked out. He was so damn tired. He finally found Tony's room, and he rapped on the door with a knuckle.

Pepper stood from the chair beside the bed, and her beautiful face broke in a relieved smile. "Bruce," she said softly.

Bruce grinned lopsidedly at seeing Tony's glazed eyes settle on him. "Hey, look who's awake," he said, summoning all that remained of his composure. He needed to put that mask on, the one he wore when he needed to pretend that he was alright.

Stark grunted. "You're a sight for sore eyes? Something like that," he mumbled. His face was white and drawn, his eyes ringed in lavender. He was propped up a bit in the bed with a rolling table pulled closer, one that had a plastic pitcher of ice water and a cup full of it with a straw. A light blanket covered him to his waist, and a nasal cannula ran under his nose. There was a StarkPad on the foot of the bed and another under his arm, but he looked like he had given up using it.

Pepper offered that same sweet, disarming smile. "I don't think I said it before, and I doubt Tony will–"

"Hey!"

"–but thank you." She took Bruce's hands and squeezed them gently. Her eyes shone in teary relief. She hugged him tightly, tucking his head to her shoulder. "You saved his life."

He felt better at that, and he couldn't help but smile, too. Genuinely. He felt warm wetness bleed through the shoulder of his shirt, and Pepper trembled in his arms. "Enough of that," Tony chastised. "You're making Banner nervous. He hates touchy-feely stuff."

Pepper pulled away, wiping at her eyes. She laughed a little. "Sorry."

"No, no," Bruce said, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He wasn't used to people thanking him for saving their loved ones. It was extremely rewarding, like a soothing balm to his tormented spirit. He wasn't really used to getting hugged, either. And Tony was right: he didn't much care for personal contact (for obvious reasons), but with Pepper it seemed fairly okay. "Don't worry about it. Been a rough day."

"Yes. You two need to talk. I'll, uh, just go grab something to eat," Pepper said. She gathered her coat from the end of Tony's bed, leaned over, kissed him gently, and left.

Tony licked his dry lips, drawing a deep breath with a wince. He planted his hands into the hospital bed weakly and tried to push himself up. He got about halfway, his face quickly becoming coated in sweat, before he gave up. "This is crap," he grumbled. He looked irritated and flushed and frustrated. "Remind me never to hang out with your friends again."

Bruce smiled faintly and lowered himself into Pepper's chair. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay. I'm on the good stuff, so I can't complain," Tony said. Even as pale and weak as he was, Stark looked infinitely better than he had a few hours ago. There was light in his eyes again. Bruce knew those horrific moments of Tony bleeding his life into his hands would stay with him for a long time. "How about you? How are you feeling?"

Bruce grunted a little in surprise. He cocked an eyebrow. "You know, you're the first person to ask me that." That hurt more than he let on. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs and clasping his hands together in front of him. He sighed. "Shaken. Beyond that, I don't know. You hear about Rogers?"

"Yeah." Tony's expression was unreadable, but his eyes shone in a bit of shame as though he'd been annoyed enough with Steve to actually wish something unfortunate would befall him and now felt immensely guilty about it. "Is he okay?"

"Seems to be."

Tony sagged against the pillows in obvious fatigue. "All's well that ends well, then," he declared. He closed his eyes as though he was drifting off to sleep. Bruce watched him for a moment, wondering if that was all he was going to say. If this really was the end. Maybe it would be, if he could just let it go.

But he couldn't. Letting things go wasn't in his nature, especially when he didn't understand. Dan maybe knew him better than he knew himself.

"Whatever guilty thing it is you're thinking, just stop." Bruce had drifted in his thoughts again, and he forced himself to focus on Stark. Tony's eyes were still closed. It was as if he'd somehow known all of Bruce's dark contemplations, how deeply conflicted and ashamed he felt. "If you hadn't done what you did, I would be dead. Barton, too, probably. And Rogers definitely."

"You didn't see it, Tony," Bruce quietly reminded. "You didn't see what they did to him." _What I did to him._

Tony grunted. "Don't need to." He finally cracked his weary eyes open and appraised Bruce evenly. Knowingly. "You're too hard on yourself. I can hear you beating yourself up from all the way over here."

"There's something fundamentally screwed up about the way I think," Bruce softly said. He could hardly keep the hard edge from his voice. "Dan thought I would help him, and he was right. I did. I didn't have a choice. I know that. But I also know myself. I think deep down I wanted to know if his idea would work."

"Sure you did," Tony said sarcastically. Bruce didn't feel particularly absolved or comforted. Offering empty solace wasn't Stark's style. He said things the way they were. He cut through the nonsense. He didn't placate or smooth over riled egos. He said what someone needed to hear, not what someone wanted to hear. He was honest, smartly so. "Coming from one obsessed genius to another, you need to accept that things just go wrong. And just because something didn't work doesn't mean it wouldn't work. This is the second time I've told you this. _Listen_ for once." Tony shook his head slightly. "And denying who you are is never a good idea. That's how you make your own demons. And then your house ends up at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean."

Bruce chuckled at that, smiling in exasperation and shaking his head. "Your house ended up at the bottom of the Pacific because you broadcasted your address to the world's worst terrorist over live TV."

"Same difference. Point is: so what if you wanted to know? There's a line between science for science and science for evil, and your buddy crossed it. You didn't. Hell, you can't even ask Rogers for a blood sample because you're too afraid of the temptation." That was true enough. "And temptation for what? Would it be so bad if you found a way to replicate the super soldier serum? Or to fix your broken tomato plants? Or even fix yourself?" Bruce didn't know. It didn't feel good, but Tony was right: the difference between examining a blood sample and forcing a man to participate in an experiment against his will was like the difference between night and day. He was being overly dramatic, and he knew it, but he couldn't shake it. "Look, Bruce, you're thinking too much about this. You did what you had to and that's it. Knowing Captain Perfect, he won't hold it against you. Probably thinks you saved him. And who's to say you didn't."

Bruce sighed at that. "No way of knowing," he said.

That wasn't entirely true, and they both knew it.

"I'm gonna sleep now. You're good?" Tony asked. His eyelids had grown increasingly droopy.

"Yeah. Good enough."

"Alright. You owe me for this, by the way."

Bruce smiled. "I owe you for a lot."

Tony yawned a ridiculously wide yawn. "Damn right."

Bruce sat there for a long while after Tony drifted to sleep. He was wondering about things, calculations and data and variables, questions that had no answers and questions that shouldn't be answered. He knew Stark too well not to see that Tony was enabling him just a little. They were fundamentally alike in their love of problem-solving. Figure it out first and judge the ramifications later. Build it now and decide whether or not it was safe to build after the fact. Run the experiment right away and digest the consequences afterward. They pushed buttons to see what they did, and if they blew up in their faces, well, then they knew not to push them again.

Obsession and genius. Bruce figured it wasn't a good combination. But it was who he was, who they both were.

Pepper came back and he left. His feet carried him elsewhere into the infirmary until he found himself outside the office of Doctor Wright. Then he hesitated because this was right, but it wasn't. It was what he needed to do, but he shouldn't do it. _Walk away. Don't let it suck you in. Don't do it, Banner. Don't._

But he did. He justified it, of course. If there were answers to be found, he deserved to know them. Steve deserved to know them, too. He knocked on the door which was slightly ajar. "Doctor Wright?"

The man looked up from his desk, papers and tablets strewn everywhere, a computer terminal bathing his face in light. He looked a bit surprised. "Doctor Banner, how can I help you?"

"Actually I thought I could help you. You said you wanted an expert on the serum to look over Captain Rogers' test results. I can do that for you. And if you have any other blood and tissue samples, I'd appreciate getting a hold of them. I'd like to run my own analyses, if you don't mind…"


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER:** _Iron Man 3, The Incredible Hulk,_ _Captain America: The First Avenger,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Thanks for all of the reviews and alerts! You guys are awesome as always. So… yeah, just because this wasn't dark enough (and because I can't seem to write anything happy – ugh something's wrong with me!), I need to put a teensy warning on this chapter. WARNING: this chapter contains mentions of spousal and child abuse. Nothing is explained in detail. I'm taking a different approach to Steve's backstory in this story, considering that the MCU canon has pretty much ruled out him being an orphan. And since his father obviously came back to the States after World War I, I decided to expand on what that could have been like (and by expand, I mean be evil about it – like I said, something must be wrong with me).

At any rate, enjoy. And did anyone actually think Steve was going to be okay after what happened to him? Never… ;-).

**UNSUSTAINABLE**

**6**

Steve ended up at Stark Tower.

To say he was pleased with the arrangement would have been a lie and a rather blatant one at that. Fury had wanted him to stay close, near the SHIELD doctors and researchers in the event something serious happened to him (_nothing_ was wrong, but no matter how many times he said it, nobody believed him). That meant staying at SHIELD headquarters in Times Square, which would have been okay though perhaps not ideal, but when Pepper Potts caught wind of him spending the foreseeable future alone in the barracks, she'd suggested that he come back with them to the Tower. She'd been shaken by what had happened to Tony, deeply so, and Steve could see why. It was obvious she loved Stark deeply and that he loved her, and she was extremely grateful for everything Bruce and Steve had done to save Tony's life. Steve had tried to politely argue, embarrassed with the open display of appreciation. He didn't like taking other people's charity and never had, even when he'd been a scrawny, skinny kid and poorer than dirt during the Depression in Brooklyn. However, she'd been incredibly persuasive, deflecting all of his excuses, piling reason upon reason on him why staying with them was a good idea. He'd be close to Doctor Banner, just in case something _did_ happen (although with each passing day since his ordeal in which nothing happened, that seemed more and more unlikely). He wouldn't be alone if he needed something or someone (which was laughable – he was Captain America and was more than capable of taking care of himself). And it was the least she and Stark could do, given what Steve had done for them (that he wanted to argue against, but he couldn't make himself at seeing the raw affection for him and the ardent desire to help in Pepper's eyes). Tony hadn't agreed, of course, but had wisely chosen to remain silent while Pepper had coaxed and cajoled and finally flat-out insisted.

And Fury had agreed. That had pretty put the nail in the coffin.

So Pepper had given him an _entire floor _(his new bedroom was bigger than the whole of his apartment in DC), complete with his own kitchen, den, dining area, lounge, and a bathroom that had more fancy features than he knew existed. He hadn't wanted all that space and all the expensive things in it, fancy artwork and sleek furniture and state-of-the-art technology, but she had laughed off his concerns. She told Tony's AI, JARVIS, to help him with whatever he needed, and JARVIS had politely greeted him, proclaiming he was available to render him any assistance he required. She had even had one of her assistants go out and buy him an entire wardrobe full of brand new clothes (expensive clothes, at that – Steve didn't know anything about modern fashion, but he could tell these things cost far more than he'd normally spend). They were sensible, though, relaxed jeans and khaki slacks and polo and button down shirts and simple jackets. Sneakers and running shoes. And it was necessary since he didn't have any of his things here, even if he'd flushed at her generosity when he found his closet and drawers were completely stocked.

And he had everything he could have wanted at his disposal. One of the things he found so jarring about life in the twenty-first century was the immediacy of everything. Entertainment (_any_ entertainment from music to movies to television shows) was instantly available with a press of a button or a simple word. Books could be purchased digitally and downloaded to any number of personal computing devices. Printed newspapers were rapidly becoming a thing of the past; why mess with that when one could use a phone to get breaking news delivered nearly the minute it happened? Food of all sorts from all over the world was available with a simple call. People could hop on a plane or a train or in a car and get anywhere, see anybody, at the drop of a hat. Friends could be on the other side of the globe and you could talk to them, even see them, like they were right in front of you. The world moved so quickly, a buzz of excitement and social media and electronic facilitation.

However, for all of that, for this life of luxury and plenty at his fingertips, he was lonely and utterly bored. Time was leaking away at a snail's pace. The minute Clint's shoulder had recovered enough for him to work, Fury had dispatched him and Romanoff to Turkey. Their mission was to attempt to track down some of the mercenaries who'd helped in Lahey's plot. The hope was that tracing contacts and money from these men might lead them back to whoever had arranged this whole nightmare in the first place, since pressing Lahey had apparently proved futile. If nothing else, they could gather better intel on what sort of threat these hired guns posed and maybe even take a few of them out. Clint had stopped by the Tower a couple days into Steve's stay to tell him all of this, the guilt and frustration bright in his eyes. This was normally the sort of mission they'd do together. Steve had swallowed his own irritation for his friend's sake, brushing it aside and jokingly telling him to be careful. Clint had just taken his advice for once and nodded and promised to stay in touch as much as possible. Steve hadn't heard from him since. That wasn't unusual or even worrying; quite often operations such as this required strict communications silence, and even if this one didn't, there wasn't always the opportunity to call. But being cut off from Clint wasn't helping with the isolation.

Tony was still recovering from his injury so he spent most of his time in his bedroom up in the penthouse. Steve had seen Stark once or twice, the inventor pale and frustrated at being laid up, irately watching television or bickering with JARVIS or Pepper or whoever happened to be around him. Stark and he had even shared a meal (accidentally of course – they'd both ended up at the breakfast table together after Pepper had invited Steve to eat with them and then conveniently left due to a sudden "business" matter). He didn't really know Stark, and Stark didn't really know him, and they weren't comfortable enough around each other to do much more than eat in silence (and Tony nearly dying with Steve's hand wrist-deep in his stomach? Not going there.). Steve liked to think Tony wasn't doing it on purpose, but he got the impression that he wasn't entirely welcome and that he had never had been. Stark seemed a changed man since the Mandarin incident, softer and more compassionate, more responsible. Calmer. More at peace with himself. Steve didn't know the whole of what had happened, but he wasn't about to ask. He respected Tony, but Tony didn't seem keen on wanting him as his friend, and Steve wasn't sure he wanted to be. That tangled knot of things between them was only more tangled now. They unnerved and aggravated one another without Pepper there to smooth over the rough edges. And Pepper was gone from morning until night most days, incredibly busy with the myriad tasks, duties, and stresses of running Stark Industries. She was like a beautiful whirlwind, rushing through each day without a moment to stop to even think but doing it with such grace and aplomb that she made it look easy. Steve didn't know how she could stand to live like that, multi-tasking so feverishly, balancing the needs of her career with the needs of the man she loved with whatever desires she had left for herself. Steve felt exhausted just observing from the sidelines.

And Banner was around, holed up in any one of the Tower's many labs or on his own floor. Steve knew he was present; he'd run into the other man on occasion in one of the common rooms, the kitchen or the lounge usually, but aside from brief exchanges that barely consisted of more than a genial "how are you" and a pleasant "I'm fine. You?", they hardly talked. Bruce was avoiding him like the plague. Steve could understand that. Banner hadn't done anything wrong, really, even if he felt like he did. There hadn't been a choice, and if Bruce hadn't followed Lahey's instructions, they all could have been killed. But Steve knew well the whims of guilt, of feeling like he'd let someone down, of knowing that his mistakes had cost lives and hurt a friend. _Killed _a friend. And he kept thinking he should tell Bruce it was okay, that he was _okay_, and none of this was or had been or ever would be his fault. But Banner always retreated before Steve summoned the courage to address all this unresolved tension, and, more than that, he found it wasn't as easy to say it as it was to think it. Even if he was trying his damnedest to act like this was all nothing, it wasn't. Some part of him was angry, frightened, _violated_ in a way that went deep. Those things weren't rational. He smothered them in apathy, ignoring them, but they were still there. SHIELD had suggested to him that he should see one of their psychiatrists to deal with the trauma of what had happened to him, but he hadn't yet. He didn't know if he would. They'd helped somewhat after he'd woken from the ice, but the shock of that had been so enormous and he'd been so lost that he really hadn't had a choice but to see them. Now… It was easier to just pretend nothing had happened, that this was all going to blow over. Fury would realize he was fine and let him back out in the field and life would go back to the way it had been.

Unfortunately, that didn't seem to be soon in coming. Days passed lethargically. Steve spent most of them alone in his suite, trapped despite the spaciousness of his accommodations. Caged. He was trying to stay patient and numb to it all, focusing on writing the reports Hill had requested about the incident with a level of cool detachment and professionalism that even he found alarming. It was so quiet that all he could do was think. Back a few weeks after the Battle of New York, one of the psychiatrists had asked him how was feeling, how he was _adjusting_, and Steve had simply said it was fine because that was all there was to it. _"It is what it is. I'm here now for better or for worse. I'll do what I can do to help."_

She had smiled knowingly. Sadly. _"You know, Captain Rogers, it is possible to be too good of a soldier."_

Steve hadn't understood but had been hurt by that all the same. _"What do you mean?"_

_"No matter how hard you get knocked down, you always get back up. Without another thought you always fight on."_

_"Of course."_ Was he supposed to do something else? _"What are you saying? I shouldn't keep going? I should throw in the towel and give up? So what if I lost everything? I can start over, right?"_ Was he looking for her permission?

_"No. No, that's not it at all."_ She kept smiling that sad smile. _"All I'm saying is it's okay to stop for a minute and feel, to let things hurt. To get help. To remember what you lost and what you went through. It's healthy to grieve, to acknowledge pain. It's not weakness."_

_"I know it's not. It's just… If you start crying because it hurts, pretty soon you can't stop. And then you can't get back up. It's best to just let it go and keep going."_

_"Who taught you that?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"Well, whoever it was did you a disservice."_ She'd leaned forward, watching him with compassionate eyes. _"You can take the hits, Captain. And I think that's part of your problem. You can take the hits, suffer through the pain, and get back up like it was nothing. You can lose everything and pick up your shield and go back out there and save the world. You can _do_ these things, so you do them without a second thought because you've been taught by the army and by the times that you grew up in and by the people in your life that that was what good soldiers did. What good men did."_

_"That's what Captain America does,"_ he'd insisted.

She had conceded that. _"Yes. But you're not Captain America. You're Steve Rogers."_

_"I'm not sure I follow,"_ he'd said, _"or that there's a difference."_

_"There is. Captain America is invincible. Steve Rogers isn't. You've been hurt. And you can try to tell yourself that it's alright, but eventually that's not going to last you. And all these wounds that you just took or ignored or buried or let go will have their due." _That had been frightening but he couldn't say why. It wasn't who he was. He never let things get to him._ "Let me ask you this: do you ever get angry?"_

_"Of course I do. But I don't let it control me."_

_"You must be angry about what you lost. It's only been a few weeks since they found you. Doesn't it bother you that Director Fury just expected you to pick yourself back up and do your job like everything that happened to you was nothing? They used you, Captain. They thawed you, gave you a computer and a book on the 21st century, and told you they needed you to lead the Avengers in a war. Did anybody ask you if you wanted to?"_

_"Yes, they asked. And the world was in danger. What was I supposed to do? Sit back and watch?"_

She had pressed on. _"Did anybody ask _you_? Or did they ask Captain America?"_ Steve had gritted his teeth. Why had he bothered coming to these sessions? If Fury hadn't told him to… _"Because Captain America soldiers on. Captain America doesn't get hurt. But you do. You needed time, and they didn't care. That has to make you angry."_

Steve had sighed. _"Yes. But what does it matter? Getting angry never helps. All it does is make things harder, for you and for everyone else."_

_"You're right, but it's a natural reaction. Anger is natural. It's healthy, even. You've gone through a tremendous shock, the trauma of fighting a war right before it notwithstanding. I tell a lot of agents who see me that compartmentalizing is all well and good to get you through the mission, but it's not a long-term solution. Eventually you have to deal with your anger _and_ your pain, with however it is you're feeling."_

_"I'm not compart – I'm not doing that. I'm just trying to do what I need to do."_

_"I know, and you're doing an amazing job. Nobody can fault that. But it's just a little too amazing, a little too stoic. You're too good of a soldier."_ Steve had looked away, feeling the uncomfortable burn of tears in his eyes. They'd woken him up, asked him to adjust to a world in which everyone he'd loved was dead or dying, a world in which he had no place, and he had. He'd even put on his uniform and picked up his shield and fought a war on behalf of people he didn't know. _He'd done it. _He'd done it without complaint, without waver, without doubt or now he was doing it too well? She'd sensed his distress. _"I'm not trying to upset you, Captain. We have these sessions–"_

_"With all due respect, I didn't ask to come. I'm following orders."_

She had smiled thinly, as though he'd just furthered her argument without him realizing it. He realized it. Too damn good of a soldier. _"The point is you tell me about how you're feeling, how you're doing, but I think you're just telling me – and telling yourself – what you want to hear. You can't make yourself be happy any more than you can wish away what makes you sad or ignore what makes you angry. The serum helps you heal your body. But it can't help you heal your soul. It's okay to admit that you're hurt. It's okay to be mad and it's okay to cry. It's okay not to be okay."_

_"I appreciate that you're worried and I appreciate that you want to help me. But I don't need help. I _am_ okay."_

He'd lied about that. And he was lying about it again. He wasn't okay. Well, in some ways he was, in all the ways that mattered, but he wasn't, too. He believed he could be, that he would be. As time passed, the memories would lose their sharpness. It would stop hurting. It always did. The feel of the restraints on his wrists and ankles, restraints he could have snapped like _nothing_ if there hadn't been a gun to Clint's head right outside the chamber. Straps cutting into his skin. The cold metal table to his bare back. Naked and exposed with men crowding all around him, touching him dispassionately. Pain as something icy and sharp stabbed into his skin, into his head, into his spine. Fire burning in his body, spreading up his back and into his brain. Every nerve wracking with agony, a vicious, acidic agony that burned his whole world away…

It could all disappear, blurred into a nondescript nightmare, if he just let it go. So he let it go. He wrote his reports. He tore through about a dozen books, letting JARVIS select novels for him (the AI did a surprisingly good job finding things that were interesting). He jogged around the city a couple of times a day and worked out in Stark's ridiculously huge and expensive gym listening to the long list of music he'd been recommended by the various people in his life. He watched TV; Tony apparently owned about every movie ever made, so it took him almost as much time to sort through it all to find something worth watching as it did to watch it. He slept a lot, which was unusual for him, but the SHIELD doctors had mentioned that radiation sickness could amount to some serious lethargy as the serum tried to revitalize his body. He wandered around the city, found his way to an art store and bought some pencils and books. He sketched. He'd never had so much free time, at least not since joining the army for Project: Rebirth. He almost didn't know what to do with himself. He kept trying to get a hold of Hill or Sitwell, _anybody_ who could put him in contact with Fury, but everyone just told him to be patient, to rest and recover, to even _enjoy_ his time off. It was really ridiculous. He was fine. He was healthy, as strong and resilient and capable as he ever had been. And the bad memories would fade. _He was fine._

But then the nightmares started.

And the migraines.

Stressful dreams weren't anything new to him; he had more than his fair share, the ghosts of Peggy and Bucky and Howard dancing through his subconscious. Since the serum, he remembered his dreams where he never used to, but these were… different. Vivid in a way that was uncanny. So acutely _alive_ that it was terrifying. Rich in sight and sound and taste. Peggy's lips soft to his own. Bucky's voice and the strength of his smile. The stench of Dum Dum's cigar, the sound of Falsworth sharply yelling, the sight of Dernier and Jones laughing together, the feel of Morita clapping him on the back as beer splashed onto his service uniform. He went to sleep in foxholes and trenches and tents, Bucky and the Howling Commandos snoring beside him, and awoke alone in his huge bed in Stark Tower, confused at how the positively real sensation of hard ground beneath him and the fresh smell of pine needles had turned into a mattress that was too soft and air that was recycled and artificially cooled. These pleasant memories were one thing. They left him gasping in grief, wiping at his eyes, struggling for a moment to compose himself and _move on_. Still, he did and went through his day unbothered. But the bad memories… Those hit him like a freight train, sending him stumbling to the bathroom to throw up, leaving him shaking in phantom agony and fear that was raw and visceral, stripping him bare of his strength and courage. His grasp on reality shifted violently in those awful minutes where sleep meshed with wakefulness, the sounds of bombs flying and bodies breaking and men screaming seemingly echoing through the Tower until he realized they were only echoing in his head. There were aliens shrieking and buildings collapsing and demons in his mind that destroyed New York and murdered the Avengers. A red skull sneering and ice and cold. _So much cold._ This was like nothing he'd experienced before. When the first dreams had come about a week into his stay in Stark Tower, he'd been left reeling but he'd shaken them off, figuring it was from stress. But days later, he was worrying it wasn't.

And the headaches were overpowering. They, too, started out simple enough, a dull ache in his neck that bothered him for a couple of days. A nuisance, really. Then it grew into a throbbing pain in the base of his skull. And now it had morphed into a monster, this shooting misery that reached across his entire head like spikes of liquid steel were snaking through his brain, burning and then hardening. It was torturing him. Everything exacerbated it. Loud noises. Bright lights. Movement. There wasn't any way to alleviate it except sleeping (he'd even tried painkillers, desperate enough to entertain the crazy thought they would help, but they didn't of course), and he was trying to avoid sleeping as much as possible because the nightmares were becoming more violent and more perverted and completely unbearable. He'd gone without sleep before, and since Project: Rebirth, he required much less of it than a normal man did. But the pain from the migraines grew so bad that he succumbed, and the nightmares were so bad that he woke in anguish, heaving and hurting and wondering what the hell was happening to him. It was a vicious cycle. He started dreaming about things he hadn't even _thought_ about in years. His mother. His father. It was almost like something was rifling through his brain, finding all these repressed or long-forgotten memories and yanking them to the surface and into the light. It was almost as if his mind was on over-drive, electrified and jolted into hyperactivity, remembering and imagining with alarming speed and power. He started to admit to himself that something was wrong.

Of course, he rationalized it like he did everything. Maybe this was all a side-effect of radiation exposure. He'd _died_ after all; even if he didn't consciously remember that, the trauma done to his body and mind had surely been substantial enough to cause these new strange and disconcerting issues. Obviously the serum could produce unexpected effects, his long hibernation in the _Valkyrie_ proof enough of that. Maybe this was a response to how badly he'd been hurt, how much effort his body was putting into recovering. Maybe. He knew he should call someone, but he couldn't bring himself to do it because he was afraid. Admitting something might be wrong was one thing, but actively seeking to correct it was another because that would make it real. That would mean people testing him, measuring him, examining him and looking for answers. That would mean Lahey had really _done _something to him that he couldn't just shake off. So he convinced himself that this would pass tomorrow or the day after.

Two weeks into his exile in the Tower, it had only gotten worse. He stood in his bathroom, leaning into the smooth, polished stone vanity that went on for miles, watching the water run down from the shiny silver faucet into the equally shiny sink. Another night of dreams had passed, dreams of his tiny apartment in Brooklyn, dreams of dark things he hadn't acknowledged in forever. They had been harsh and cruel and twisted and he was having a hard time shaking them. And those dreams hadn't been the worst of them. Bucky falling from the train. Tony falling from the sky. Peggy worn and withered in a hospital, dying before his eyes. Dying in his arms. His mother dying in his arms, too. Angry eyes blaming him. Dead soldiers, _his men_, butchered and bloody and rising from scorched and torn battlefields to blame him. The Commandos lost, tortured, experimented on. Bucky's skin waxy and burned, his eyes brimming with fury and agony and accusation, as shadowy men advanced on them both with needles and knives and horrible things. Dan Lahey had done this to him because Arnim Zola had done it to Bucky and _he hadn't stopped him_.

He felt so thoroughly worn, worn and weak. Why was he dreaming of these things? Why?

He drew a deep breath to calm his rattled nerves and cupped his hands under the flow of cold water and splashed it to his face. That immediately took him to his last minutes in Schmidt's plane, the wide expanse of ice and snow rushing up to meet him, slamming through the cockpit and invading his broken body and freezing him alive_._ The memory held fast, so incredibly real, more real now than it ever had been before. It let him go when he died, and suddenly he was back in the bathroom, staring at that damn shiny sink with his hands clenched around the vanity and not the arms of the pilot's chair. Steve choked on half a sob, squeezing the granite counter until the stone cracked. When he caught his breath and opened eyes he'd squeezed shut, he saw the water running down the drain was mixed with red. It took his overwhelmed mind a moment to realize it was blood, blood dripping from his nose. Steve wiped his lip, staring at the red covering his fingers in muted alarm. He hadn't had a nosebleed since before the serum. He forced himself to breathe slowly, feeling nauseous. At least the headache wasn't quite so skull-splitting as it normally was. He looked back at the mirror, at his pale, drawn face and red eyes and the blood. Detachment. It wasn't real, and he wasn't suffering. He couldn't be suffering because none of it was real.

He wiped the blood away and took a shower. He got dressed, brushed his teeth and combed his hair and made himself look calm and presentable. He was numb enough to soldier on.

He emerged from the silence of his room, feeling decent. JARVIS asked him yet again if he was alright, if he required any assistance; the AI had surely noticed his distress these last nights, though he hadn't directly commented on it. Steve brushed aside JARVIS' concerns, grabbing his sketchpad and heading toward the main kitchen a few floors down to find some coffee. When he got there, he brewed a pot (he never imagined something so simple as making coffee could be so technologically complicated). Caffeine affected him about as much alcohol, which was to say not at all, but at least it had a pleasant placebo effect. He thought about eating something, but he didn't think his yet roiling stomach could take it. So he took his steaming cup and sat at the breakfast bar across from the huge windows and watched the sun rise.

He was well into his third sketch, his mind blissfully blank and lulled by the familiar, _safe_ concentration of drawing, by the time he heard someone walking down the hallway outside. The scratch of his pencil against the paper had been so loud in the heavy silence. He paused and looked up to find Pepper entering the kitchen wearing a simple pair of jeans and a white, sleeveless blouse. She had a bright smile on her face, but it immediately fell. "Steve, you look awful. Are you alright?"

He'd hoped it wouldn't be so obvious. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just not sleeping so great."

She didn't seem convinced, and he hoped that his voice didn't sound as rough and strained to her as it did to him. She went to the expansive cupboards and grabbed a coffee cup. "I suppose you have a good reason not to," she said. She poured herself some coffee, loaded it with cream and sugar, and made her way toward the breakfast bar. "Mind if I sit with you?"

He didn't feel like talking. Despite his relative isolation and loneliness, the thought of engaging in chit chat (or worse, a conversation with actual substance) with anyone right then was decidedly unappealing. But this was her home, and he was her guest. He couldn't be rude. "Of course not, Miss Potts."

"I already told you to call me Pepper," she softly chided, sliding onto one of the stools beside him. "Numerous times, I think."

"Sorry," he said with half a smile. "Old habits."

She was tense; he could practically feel it. They sat in a not quite comfortable silence for a few seconds. "If you want to talk, I'm more than happy to listen. I know that sounds cheesy and we don't really know each other, but…"

Steve winced. "I appreciate that, but it's okay. I don't want to trouble you." Troubling her was a concern, but not his chief one. The stuff he was dreaming was so… dark and violent. He didn't want to even go near it, let alone spread it to anyone else.

She sighed, curling her slender fingers around the white porcelain of her mug. She looked like she was debating whether or not to say something, but she cocked her head and decided to be bold. "You might find this hard to believe, but I understand what you're going through. When Killian kidnapped me… Well, Tony gave SHIELD his report. Did you read it?"

"Not entirely."

"They injected me with Extremis to force Tony to cooperate." Steve had known that. It hadn't occurred to him until that moment that Pepper was right: she could understand what it was like. She looked nervous. "It was… beyond a doubt the single most painful, terrifying, and degrading experience of my life. I still have nightmares. I think I always will."

"Miss Potts–" She gave him a look. "Pepper," he corrected himself. "Listen, you don't have to tell me–"

"I won't," she promised. "I'm not going to, not unless you want to talk." She winced at her own words, but he was moved by the depth of what she was offering him. "And if it's bothering you to the point where you can't sleep, maybe you should talk to Bruce."

Steve prayed the wave of tension that rolled over him wasn't noticeable. "He's not that kind of doctor," he reminded. "And there isn't anything he can do."

Pepper smiled softly. "He might still be able to help. I know that Tony seems to get a lot of comfort out of talking to him." Steve didn't know if she just wasn't aware of the tension between him and Bruce and how utterly impossible what she was suggesting was. Maybe she did know and this was her subtle way of trying to fix the problem. In either case, Steve didn't see how admitting to Bruce that this was affecting him would solve anything. He didn't want to amplify Bruce's guilt. And he frankly didn't want Bruce involved. He knew he should be better than this, but he was so raw that he could only think about that radiation killing him and the hand that had wielded it. "How are you feeling otherwise?"

Steve sighed a little and managed a small grin for her sake. "Alright. Stir crazy."

Pepper sipped her coffee. "No word from SHIELD yet? If – well, if you can talk about… that."

He couldn't help but smile. "I can talk about it. And no." He was almost starting to not care about SHIELD and his forced R&R. The headache was coming back. It was a fairly random thing, and he wasn't sure what was triggering it. All he knew was once it got going, it stampeded over him. He swallowed thickly. "How's Tony doing?"

Pepper smiled in a way that seemed just a tad tormented and exasperated. "He's alright. Back on his feet and generally feeling better, but that's not always a good thing with him. I'm not sure which is worse: Tony bored to tears or Tony obsessively working to get his mind off of things. Babysitting him is a full-time job, even more so than babysitting his company." Her smile turned sheepish. "But you don't need to listen to me complain."

"It's fine," Steve reflexively said. God, his head hurt…

"Who's that?"

He didn't know if he'd lost track of the conversation for a minute, blanked out for just a second or something odd like that, because he couldn't figure out to whom she was referring. "Huh? Oh. Oh, that's not…"

She was looking at his drawing. It wasn't finished, and in some places the shading wasn't right. Pepper was surprised. "I didn't know you were an artist," she said. "A good one. Wow."

"It's nothing, and I'm not really."

"Did you draw that from memory?"

Steve nodded and tapped his pencil to his temple. "Photographic, thanks to the serum."

"Wow. I can't even remember what _I_ look like most days." Pepper smiled coyly at him. "She's beautiful. Who is she? An old flame?"

Steve couldn't help but blush and laugh a little. The question stirred the mess of emotions in his heart, and not in a good way. But he couldn't be angry at Pepper for asking. "No, nothing like that. She's my mother."

Pepper's face paled and her eyes widened in horror. "Oh, I'm sorry, Steve. I didn't mean… But I guess it was stupid to even ask."

"It's alright. She died a long time ago. Well, a long time even for me." He looked down at his picture, his eyes glazing with the memory. The scene in his head was _new_. He must have completely forgotten it over the years. He realized immediately that he hadn't imagined it, but the fact that it had come to him, so fresh and vivid, was puzzling. His mother was standing against the fire escape of their old apartment building. He could still hear the sound of her voice when she called him to dinner. He'd been too busy to care, running wild with Bucky in the dirty street as they pretended to be soldiers, the summer evening hot and humid and sweat clinging to his skin. For once he could almost keep up. For once his asthma had let him alone. And she'd seen that and let him alone, too. Even as his father had found her there and yelled at her that their supper was getting cold.

He couldn't have been more than five years old, but somehow this seemed like it had just happened, bright and colorful. He didn't know from where the memory had come, or why he was remembering it now, but he was. It made him sad and happy at the same time. "She worked hard. She had to in order to keep us going back then. My father wasn't doing very well. He came back from the war all scarred and burned, and he hated the world for it." At Pepper's questioning glance, he elaborated. "Mustard gas."

"He didn't die from that?"

"Not right away," Steve explained. "Not for years. It messed up his lungs pretty badly, so bad he really couldn't work anymore. It was hard on my mother, taking care of the both of us, me with my asthma and him with his problems. He died when I was eight." _Old enough to know he was a bastard sometimes. A lot of the time._ That was what Bucky had thought. It was what Buck's mother, a stern, portly, but loving woman had thought, too. They'd noticed the occasional black eye or bruised jaw, or that sometimes Steve couldn't play right because his ribs were tender and couldn't sit right because his rear was covered in welts. _A goddamn good-for-nothing Irish bastard._ That was what Mrs. Barnes had called Steve's father while she'd iced up Steve's oozing nose once. Steve had been beaten up so much and so often that it had been hard to tell which bumps and bruises came from his father and which came from the neighborhood and schoolyard bullies, but she had always assumed they had _all_ come from his father. Steve had taken the abuse (at the time, he hadn't even realized that was what it was – it had just been the way things were). He considered himself lucky because as angry as Joseph Rogers had been that he'd come home to find his son had been born sick and small and weak, he was angrier that he'd come home to find himself ruined in every sense of the word. Financially and physically and emotionally and spiritually. And he had taken most of his anger and resentment out on his wife.

Steve's mother had been soft-spoken and calm, a pale, blond woman with a comely face and delicate features. She had stood between her husband and her son as much as possible, guarding Steve from the violence, trying her hardest to fix the situation even when it had been beyond repair. She had never complained because she still loved the man she'd married and continued to love him long after pneumonia had finally taken him. Steve hadn't been able to understand that, as young as he'd been, how she could have still felt so much for a man who'd terrorized her. He figured his father couldn't have always been that way, though he had no memories of who he had been before the war. But his mother had had memories, wonderful memories to which she had clung. She had been so sweet and kind, soft smiles and gentle touches, that she couldn't have fallen in love with someone so harsh and cruel and twisted. Some nights he had heard them through the thin walls of their apartment, talking like lovers, like a husband and wife even though a slight mistake on her part might have ended up with him belting her just a few hours earlier. She had been endlessly patient and endlessly calm, endlessly resilient for all their sakes, though sometimes she had cried. She had always held Steve when she did. _"Don't cry, baby." _Her tears had soaked his floppy hair, and she clutched him to her chest and shushed him even though she had been the one who couldn't stop. _"Don't cry. Don't let it hurt you. He's just mad. He didn't mean it." _He had never meant it. "_You just keep getting back up. We both just have to keep getting back up."_

His psychiatrist had wanted to know where he'd learned to keep taking it. He'd learned it from her, but she hadn't done him _any_ disservice. He'd learned the value of strength from her, of courage and determination. And he'd learned the power of anger from his father, that despair and hurt could turn a good man into a bad one. He'd learned how to temper fury with compassion, how to be understanding, how important it was to protect those he loved and those who were weak. How to stand back up and keep going and pretend for the sake of others that things didn't hurt nearly as bad as they did. He knew what the psychiatrist would have said if he'd told her about it. His mother had been delusional, blinded to her husband's faults, rationalizing her own suffering. She'd been a victim. He didn't see her (or want to remember her) that way. She'd been a warrior in his eyes, a beautiful, bruised warrior with callused, over-worked hands and weary, veiled eyes and an endless supply of love. She'd been stalwart and graceful. She had watched pain and rage destroy the man she'd loved. She had watched it eat away at his soul, rot the good things about him until they were ash and mud, bleed out his kindness and loyalty and affection until there was nothing left in his heart but hate. And she had _never_ let that poison bring her down.

"Steve?" Pepper's concerned voice drew him from his thoughts. He focused on her, though it was harder than it should have been. "You okay?"

He didn't know why all of this was coming up. "Yeah," he said. "Just thinking about things I haven't thought about in a while." Bucky had always told him he was too serious, too dramatic. Too prone to over-analyzing things and taking things to heart. So had Peggy. And so did Clint. But none of them was there to stop him. "I've had too much time to stew, I guess, being so cooped up."

"I didn't know Captain America was capable of brooding," Pepper teased lightly.

Steve smiled in spite of himself. He looked over his drawing of his mother again, feeling like it wasn't quite right but not knowing exactly what to change. He closed his sketchbook. "Captain America can brood," he admitted. "Sometimes too much for his own good."

"It's my fault you've been stuck here," she said. "I pressured you into staying and left you to fend for yourself."

"It's alright. I should be thanking you for taking me in."

"You already did. And, no, it's not alright." She looked at him squarely. "Let me make it up to you. If you like art, there's an Andy Warhol exhibit at the Met. It's supposed to be fantastic. I'll take you."

Steve flushed with nervousness. He didn't think he could do that. Not with his migraine pounding and as fatigued as he was. And then he thought this was pretty damn sad and ridiculous and pathetic; if he was concerned about something so mundane and simple as an outing with a newfound friend, how the hell could he convince Fury that he was fit to return to active duty? And, more importantly, why wasn't he_ getting help?_ "You don't need to do that."

"It's the least I can do."

"What about Tony?"

"Please." She rolled her eyes. "He and Bruce are tinkering and inventing and reinforcing each other's obsessions. I'll be lucky if I see him again this week." She smiled prettily at him, grabbing his arm and pulling. "Come on, it'll be fun. I'll even buy you lunch."

Steve wanted to decline. But he didn't. "Okay."

* * *

As it turned out, going out wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared it would be. Stepping out into the Saturday morning sunlight felt _good_, like the brightness was blasting away his troubles, and he almost instantly felt better. The fresh air did wonders, revitalizing his battered heart, and being among people was consoling. He hadn't realized how truly isolated he'd let himself become, and he wondered immediately if all of this, the nightmares and memories and headaches, wasn't just some manifestation of depression or post-traumatic stress disorder (which his psychiatrist had told him he had, but he'd ignored it because it didn't seem possible to label what had happened to him with something so neat and simple and easy). But whatever the case, he felt good, _normal_, for the first time since he and Clint had left to meet up with Tony and Bruce before driving to Lahey's lab.

Pepper met him outside, having grabbed her purse and called for a company car. They drove to the Met (which was fairly silly – it was only a fifteen minute walk), and most of that time Pepper spent on the phone. She looked exasperated and embarrassed and sounded like she was trying to get whoever had bothered her to stop talking. She finally hung up and shook her head and turned her phone off. "Sorry. There are no such things as weekends when you run a company."

Steve smiled. He'd never been in a car this nice before. "I can only imagine."

"So what sort of art do you like?"

They chatted about that the rest of the ride and well into arriving at the museum. Steve was always a tad concerned he'd be recognized out in public. He knew the Smithsonian in DC was planning some sort of exhibit on Captain America; they'd contacted him about it a few weeks ago when he'd last been home. He hadn't been entirely comfortable with the idea because he'd never been entirely comfortable with the fame that came with the shield, with the adoration and reverence, with the notoriety. He hadn't become Captain America to be a celebrity or a legend or even a hero. He'd done it to help people and stop evil, but even back during the war the army and the US government had turned him into this symbol of American purity and power, this endless source of propaganda. And since saving the city, his face had been plastered on countless TV screens, cell phones, and computers as the indispensable leader of the Avengers, and his fame had skyrocketed. Stark seemed to flourish with the attention, but Steve could do without it.

Thankfully, dressed as he was in simple Dockers and a blue polo shirt and sneakers, nobody noticed him. And nobody noticed Pepper, either. They walked through the museum. It was nice, honestly, and fun, and the tension left him as he started to enjoy himself. He'd been to the Met many times before but not since he'd been lost. Back when they'd been kids, he had dragged Bucky numerous times because this place, with its huge hallways and countless treasures, had inspired his love of art. Bucky couldn't have cared less, but he had always pretended for Steve's sake. It was a little strange because so much of it was the same yet things were radically different, too. Much like _everything_ in the future. As much as he'd caught up with the times, there were still a lot of things he didn't know and didn't understand. He learned as he had the occasion to (which wasn't often with how busy he was with SHIELD). It was interesting to discover that Warhol had a childhood not dissimilar from his own. Son of immigrants. Sick. Raised in tough times. He'd never had a chance to really look at Warhol's work before. It was extraordinary.

They wandered around the museum for a couple more hours, visiting other exhibits as well, talking about art. Pepper complained that Tony had no taste and bought art just to own it, which seemed completely within character for him, and that he had a veritable treasure trove of priceless pieces in storage collecting dust. She wasn't even sure if Stark knew what he had. That seemed within character for him, too. They wove their way through families and visitors and tourists, enjoying each other's company, and before long it was lunch time. Pepper summoned their car, and she took him to a place that served gourmet American fare (thirty dollars for a hamburger? Steve could hardly believe his eyes). It was delicious he had to admit, probably the best burger he'd ever had. After that, they walked to Central Park and roamed the paths. Steve bought them ice cream, and they strolled in the pleasant summer afternoon. Pepper laughed and smiled. She was easy to talk to, so he did. She asked about what it was like to grow up during the Depression, so he told her. She asked about the war, so he explained (leaving out the bad parts, of course). And then she asked about Tony's father.

"He was a good man," Steve said once he finally figured out how to answer. He wasn't sure it was his place (or that he even wanted) to offer his opinion on something so personal. Pepper pushed her auburn hair behind her ear as the wind brushed through it, watching him with curious eyes. Steve sighed softly. "He was a friend. He did a lot for his country. A lot. We wouldn't have won the war without him."

"I'm sorry. I'm really not trying to interrogate you. It's just… I've been dealing with Tony's issues for years. He won't talk about his dad. I think some of his problems are rooted in whatever went on between them. I thought… I don't know. Forget it."

Steve squinted in the bright midday sun. "No, you can ask me. I just don't know what to tell you. The Howard Stark I knew was… well, honestly? He was a lot like Tony." _A hero. A good man._ He flushed a little. "Don't tell Tony I told you that."

Pepper seemed touched by that. Maybe it was the soft, fond tone of his voice or the sincerity in his eyes. He meant what he said. "I think he'd like to hear that actually. From you. You intimidate him, you know."

"What? Why?"

"His father used to talk about you a lot," she said. "He took losing you very hard. He never stopped looking for you. I think Tony felt like he grew up unloved, like he was constantly being compared to Captain America and never measured up. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Tony's one of the most insecure people I know."

Steve winced. "He shouldn't be. He's got nothing to prove."

"He has issues," Pepper repeated. "Lots and lots of them. And self-respect and commitment are major ones."

Steve wasn't sure what he should say. He wasn't sure what she wanted him to say. It wasn't any of his business. And even if it was, he wasn't qualified to render an opinion. He wasn't exactly an expert on love or women. And he definitely wasn't an expert on Stark. But Pepper looked worried and crestfallen and like something serious was bothering her, and she'd been so kind to him. "Listen, maybe it's not my place to say. I don't know anything about what you have with Tony, but I do know that he'd have to be the world's biggest idiot not to see what a wonderful thing he has in you. And he may have issues, but an idiot he is not."

Pepper actually blushed. It made her look younger, girlish, not the sophisticated, intelligent woman Steve had grown accustomed to seeing. She nudged him on the shoulder slightly. "You're a good guy, Steve," she said. "One in a million." She grimaced, ashamed of something she suddenly remembered. "And I'm sorry about… God, what was it? Two weeks ago when you and Agent Barton came and I embarrassed you in front of Tony."

He'd barely thought about it. "Oh. It was no big deal. I've been embarrassed before, believe it or not." He gave her a disarming smile, and she laughed.

"Well, I meant what I said, though, when I was torturing you. You really could have any woman you want. All you need to do is look." He didn't answer. She looped her arm into the crook of his elbow and they walked back to the car. He had the feeling she wanted to ask him about his love life again (it was pretty obvious she pitied him, or at least felt bad for him, being alone in this new world), but thankfully she didn't. Clint had learned early in their friendship that there were certain topics that were off-limits, and his shattered relationship with Peggy (and moving on from that level of heartbreak) was one of them. Clint had his things that they never talked about as well, Loki and his past principally. As close as they were, they respected each other's distance. Pepper was thankfully perceptive and respected Steve's distance as well and said nothing more about it.

They drove in companionable silence back toward the Tower. It was rush hour, so the traffic was thick, and they could have walked home faster. Steve felt no inclination to do that, however. He didn't want to go back. Back to boredom and waiting to hear from SHIELD and worrying about what had happened to him. Back to the nightmares. Pepper laid a hand on his knee, jarring him from his thoughts. "Steve, you look like something's bothering you again. You sure you're okay?"

He wasn't sure of anything anymore, save that the pit of anxiety in his stomach was heavy and miserable. All of the sudden it came rushing back, thoughts of his bad dreams and headaches, and the pain of which he'd been blissfully free that entire day surged anew. He didn't answer, looking blankly out the window at the people bustling on the sidewalk and warring with himself – _tell her and tell Banner and get some help God something isn't right_ – until she grabbed his hand more insistently. "Steve?"

"Something's not right," he said softly.

Her face fractured in concern. "What?"

The cab ahead of them exploded.

Pepper shrieked in surprise and terror, reeling back against the leather seat. Fiery wreckage was careening toward their car fast, faster than could be stopped, fast enough that it could barely be seen. But Steve did see it, and he saw it in horrifying, detailed slow motion. He let go of Pepper's hand and pulled her screaming form to his chest and kicked out the door of the town car and jumped. He tucked Pepper in his embrace, protecting her with his much larger frame, as the remains of the cab crashed down upon the roof and hood of their car. The windshield was completely smashed. It was unlikely the driver survived.

Steve stood, keeping Pepper tight in his arms. He looked around quickly. Ahead there was smoke and people screaming, running wildly away down 42nd Avenue from something up ahead. He grasped Pepper by the shoulders. She was shaken and there were tears in her eyes. "Are you hurt?"

"No," she gasped. "Oh, my God…"

"Stay here," Steve firmly ordered, "and call the police."

"Steve, wait!"

She tried to hold on to him, but he was much stronger and faster and already running down the sidewalk. He wove through the crowds of screaming people, twisting on light feet to avoid crying women and children and men glancing over their shoulders as they ran away as fast as possible. Steve ducked as another car exploded on the congested street. People screamed and fire erupted in huge orange jets of heat. He ran out into the street, jumping with one smooth leap onto the hood of a car and flying across the tangled mess of stopped vehicles. "Go!" he cried to the frightened drivers and passengers clambering from their cars. The stink of burning oil was heavy on the summer air, and smoke was rapidly filling the street. "Hurry! Get out of here!"

From his vantage he could see down the road, see a man dressed entirely in black with a ski mask over his face wielding what looked like a rocket launcher. Steve watched him aim with ridiculous calm, a trained professional no doubt, and fire again. Another car in front of him went up in a ball of fire and smoke, the explosion booming along the tall buildings flanking 42nd Avenue. The burning wreckage peppered the poor people trying to escape. He rushed forward, squeezing down to the road and between two cars to get to a woman who was screaming hysterically, her clothes on fire. He pushed her down, patting frantically at her legs, using his bare hands and body to smother the crawling flames before they grew stronger. "My kids!" she screamed at him. Her brown eyes were huge with panic and tears. "They're in there!" She frantically pointed at the remains of her SUV, the front of which was buried under fiery debris and burning itself.

Steve wasted not a second, ignoring the flames rapidly engulfing the car and grabbed the searing hot handle of the rear passenger door. The door wouldn't open, so he ripped it right off. "Come on!" he called to the sobbing children inside. The three kids (the oldest wasn't more than seven) were hysterical and frightened beyond measure. There were two boys and a little girl who was fastened into a car seat. He tried to unstrap the one closest to him, but the boy was kicking and struggling so much it was nearly impossible. He softened his voice and forced a comforting smile to his face. The boys both wore Avengers shirts. "Hey, guys. It's alright. You know who I am?" They cried harder. Steve felt the unbearable heat of the fire inching closer. If it got to the fuel before he got them out… "I'm Captain America." That got their attention, and they stopped screaming to look at him. He smiled again. "I'm going to get you guys out of this, but I need you to unstrap and climb over to me."

The street shook with another violent explosion. Steve didn't dare glance away, afraid that if he did, he'd lose the kids. The eldest one undid his seatbelt. "Help your brother. Okay?" The little guy nodded, undoing his younger sibling's seatbelt. "Now come on. I'm not going to let anything happen to you." The younger one hesitated a second more, a second Steve spent nearly panicking because the entire front of the car was on fire now, before throwing his small body toward him. Steve caught the child and handed him out to his still sobbing mother.

The next one came right after. "Can you get her?" the mother wailed, taking her other boy. Steve pushed into the car, reaching for the screaming toddler. He fumbled with the straps of the car seat, wondering how the hell to get the stubborn things off in an emergency, before laying his big hand protectively over the child's face. He pushed the car seat back and yanked the straps clear out of it. Then he lifted the toddler out.

Somehow over the chaos he heard the distinctive sound of the rocket launcher firing. He sensed more than saw the missile coming at him. It hit an abandoned bus beside them, and the next thing he knew a significant portion of it was flying toward him. He moved without thinking, tucking the wailing child to his chest and gathering the mother and her boys in front of him. He stood against the onslaught of flaming glass and metal. It struck his back, crushing and grinding and wrapping around him as he dug his sneakers into the road. _Push._ The command went through his mind fervently as an eternity of deafening noise followed, the pressure against him unbelievable. _Push back. Push back!_ And he pushed back with a cry of effort and every bit of himself.

It stopped. The tiny body in his arms was sobbing, clinging to his neck. He lifted his head and looked at the wreckage surrounding them, idly shocked that he'd just done that, that the bus had _bent_ and _broken _around him. It should have crushed them, but it hadn't. The fire behind them was burning out of control now, and there was no easy way to escape, so he planted his foot against the remains of the side of the bus and kicked with everything he had. The broken part moved, scraping across the asphalt, and he picked up the other boy and ran through the narrow gap. The mother followed just in time. Their SUV ignited behind them.

Steve took a deep breath, glancing back at the inferno raging. "Whoa!" yelled the older boy as he set the kid to his feet. He was staring at Steve in utter amazement with eyes as wide as saucers. "Wow… You really are Captain America!"

Steve looked down at the girl in his arms and found her unhurt. He smoothed the child's mussed dark hair before tenderly peeling her from his chest and handing her to her mother. "Take her." The woman nodded, awestruck. "Go!"

She called after him, thanking him with a strained, shaking voice, before allowing herself to be escorted out by the EMTs arriving on the scene. He didn't watch, turning instead to the man destroying 42nd Avenue in broad daylight. The police were coming now, sirens blaring and lights flashing. He could hear their shouts, demands that the attacker drop his weapon and stand down. They were huddled among the stopped cars, taking cover with their handguns and assault rifles held at the ready. Steve climbed atop the hood of another car, looking down the street. The cops immediately ordered him to get down, to get out of the way and leave the area with the other civilians. Without his shield and uniform, they didn't recognize him.

Though the haze of smoke, he spotted the man with the rocket launcher. He was loading it again. He looked flustered, yelling though not at his victims fleeing the destroyed street. Steve noticed that the man stood in front of a bank. Distantly he could hear yelling that had nothing to do with the chaos on the street. Barked orders and frightened voices and crying. People being threatened. _They're robbing the bank._ That was what this was about. He was sure of it, knowing it with certainty that seemed impossible, like he was there inside the bank and watching the horrific scene unfold. This wasn't a random act of terrorism or depravity. The man was creating a diversion and blocking law enforcement from reaching the bank so his buddies could finish the job. It seemed extreme, but Steve knew better than anyone that evil knew no concept of restraint. With that rocket launcher, the man could conceivably keep the police trapped and suppressed as long as his ammunition held; the amount of damage he was causing and would continue to cause was devastating. But he couldn't stop Captain America.

Steve ignored the shouts of the cops behind him, running through the mess of the street, jumping across cars, sliding over hoods, weaving among the debris. The thug saw his approach, leveling the rocket launcher at him and firing. He lithely avoided the missile, rolling to the street and snatching up a hubcap that had been knocked free from a car. He twisted, jumping clear above an overturned truck, before landing on the sidewalk maybe twenty feet from the perpetrator. He threw the hubcap like it was his shield (a weak, lame excuse for his shield, at any rate) and it collided with the man's head while he fumbled to reload his weapon. The man went down, and the rocket launcher clanked to the sidewalk.

But Steve didn't stop. He sprinted further before skidding to a stop outside the large glass windows of the bank. Pressing himself flush to the polished marble of the exterior, he turned and looked quickly inside. It was just as he envisioned. Nine men, all with automatic weapons. The poor customers and employees were huddled in the center of the lobby, except for a few who were frantically gathering the money the men were trying to steal. Five men guarded the hostages. He committed their locations to memory with a single glance.

And then he charged through the window.

Glass shattered. People screamed. He moved fast, faster than he ever had before. He was across the lobby in a blink and a breath, throwing his knee into the man closest to him. The thug was sent flying, his chest crushed. The other men realized that they were under attack, but it was too late. Steve was already on the next, throwing a punch that dropped another assailant roughly to the gleaming floor. People were crying, pressing themselves down and to each other as Steve devoured the distance to the third man. He knocked aside his gun before wrapping an arm around the man's chest. Another of the soldiers whirled, firing a shotgun at him, but he only succeeded in shooting his friend. Steve wrapped his hand around the man's hand that held the gun, aimed, and rapidly squeezed two shots off, taking out the other's knees. He howled, falling, his automatic rifle discharging. The bullets flew everywhere, across the lobby toward the teller booths and down into the floor and up to the ceiling. Steve dropped the man he was holding and stepped to the other, kicking the gun away before driving his shoe into his temple and knocking him unconscious.

He heard a gun firing and turned and twisted. He darted among the sloppy shots, seeing them as though they weren't cutting through the air at incredible speeds, as though he could simply avoid them. And he did simply avoid them. He kicked the gun right out of the man's hands and punched him across the face. A furious howl resounded as the others of the party came at him, but they were no match for him. He kneed one in the chest, sending him flying across the bank and smashing through the polished wood of the booths. The next he tackled, driving him to the floor and springing back to his feet over the man's now unmoving body. Gunfire chased him, and he dove for cover behind the booths. He grimaced, feeling the bullets slam into the wood between him and the shooter and knowing he had to do something quickly before innocents got caught in the crossfire. He reached up to one of the teller's work stations, found something to use a weapon, and bounded back over the counter and flung the letter opener toward the man unloading his rifle at him. The guy was across the lobby near the opposite wall behind the booths. The letter opener sank deep into his shoulder with enough power to force him back a couple of steps before embedding itself into the wall behind him. He slumped down.

Bullets narrowly missed him, and he dropped to the cold floor and rolled. "Get back!" Steve stopped short when he spotted the last robber. The man had taken a hostage, a pretty young girl with red hair and green eyes filled with tears. She was obviously a bank teller, a poor innocent trapped in this sudden and horrific nightmare. The black-clad thug was pressing his gun to her temple menacingly. Through the holes in his ski mask, he looked panicked and enraged and terrified. Terrified of Steve. "Get the hell back! _Get back!_"

"Let her go," Steve warned. He was kneeling on the floor. There was a fallen handgun a few yards to his left. It was beyond his reach, but even if it wasn't, there was no way he could go for it without the man shooting the hostage. He wasn't that fast. "Let her go. You don't want to kill her."

"You want me to kill you instead?" the man yelled, pointing his gun toward Steve. The people huddled behind them screamed in fear, and the woman sobbed, shaking in the man's rough grip. "You son of a bitch! Who the hell are you? No, no – it doesn't matter! Get your goddamn hands up or I'll blow her brains out!" The gun went back to the young woman's head, threatening, and she quivered in terror, tears rolling down her pale cheeks and ruining her make-up. The robber was losing his control, losing his patience. "I mean it! I'll do it! I'll–"

A loud bang echoed through the bank. The man lurched back, a bullet in his forehead, dead center between his eyes. He fell to the ground with a heavy, lifeless thud.

Everything was silent. Everything was still.

Steve stood stiffly, the gun in his hand unwavering, aimed at the place the man had been a second before. The woman finally shrieked in shock, running toward him and away from the bloody body on the floor behind her. The police barged through the front of the bank, rifles drawn and yelling. Steve released a slow breath and lowered his arm. The world seemed slow, not quite real, lethargic and lazy as the chaos went on around him. People were sobbing, crying, led to safety by EMTs and police officers. There were murmurs of shock, of fear and relief, of _amazement_.

A cop stood in front of him, asking him questions, but he just handed the stunned officer the gun. And then he heard Pepper's voice and she was beside him, covered in soot and ash but alright. She pulled him into her arms, holding him and talking quickly, asking if he was okay, but he couldn't really hear what she was saying. He didn't know if he was okay. Her soft hands were on his cheeks, and her blue eyes were staring into his, but it didn't ground him. It didn't make sense. The shock of what had happened, of what he'd done, was starting to sink in, to infiltrate the haze of concentration that had fallen onto his mind.

The girl who'd been held at gunpoint was still weeping. As the EMTs led her away, she grabbed Steve's arm desperately, gasping her gratitude in a stuttering, sobbed rush. He didn't hear that, either. He didn't hear anything. He didn't feel anything. He was numb. Distant. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real. He looked down at his hands. He couldn't explain it but they didn't seem like _his_ hands. In the space of barely a minute, he'd taken out nine armed bank robbers by himself, and not a single civilian had been killed. He'd saved dozens of people. But that wasn't what was bothering him.

He'd shot that man and saved that woman's life, but he wasn't sure _how_ he'd done it.

He'd never reached for the gun.


	7. Chapter 7

**DISCLAIMER:** _Iron Man 3, The Incredible Hulk,_ _Captain America: The First Avenger,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, disturbing imagery)

**UNSUSTAINABLE**

**7**

Tony was literally knee-deep in trying to repair the propulsion system in Iron Man's boot when JARVIS' voice cut through his workshop. "Sir." Tony tried to ignore it, his leg propped onto a workbench with a probe jabbed into the knee joint and a screw driver between his teeth. The ending guitar riff of The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes" blasted through the room, so that helped drown out the interruption. Still, JARVIS was persistent. Tony wasn't entirely sure where the AI had learned that particularly infuriating trait because he sure as hell wouldn't have programmed it. "Sir." Whatever JARVIS wanted could wait. He was getting frustrated with this bug (about as frustrated as he was with his sore and weak body, but the suit was easier to fix). Suddenly his music was cut off. "Sir, please."

Tony sighed and reached for his can of Red Bull on a cart a few feet from him. The tender skin and aching muscles of his abdomen were stretched painfully as he did that, but he refused to surrender. He was tired of being in pain. The meds worked well enough, but he'd been off the strong stuff for days now and getting back into the swing of things was more difficult and aggravating than he'd anticipated. "What?" he snapped, snatching the can and taking a huge drink out of it.

"Miss Potts has been trying to reach you for more than hour," JARVIS announced.

Tony crushed the empty can in his hand and tossed it to the trash can at the other end of the workbench. It bounced off the edge and clattered to the floor. He rolled his eyes and went back to the boot on his leg. Something was wrong with the dampeners in the knee joint. They weren't cushioning properly so that the force from his improved repulsor system wasn't being adequately displaced. His poor knees had had about enough abuse. "What does she want?" he asked absently, fiddling with the power distributors along the calf of the suit. He furrowed his brow slightly. "Wait. What time is it? Did I miss dinner or something?"

If it was possible for JARVIS to sound long-suffering, he was managing it. "I must insist you watch this," the AI calmly commanded, and the huge display at the other end of the workbenches brightly came to life.

Tony ignored the order for a second as some sort of news story appeared on the screen, turning back to his work. But the riled voice of a reporter cut through the pleasant haze of concentration (and Vicodin and one too many energy drinks, if he was being honest). "–but at this point we don't know much more. It's really a miracle that only one person was killed." It was an image of a rattled man standing in front of smoky wreckage. Through the shifting clouds of gray, Tony saw what looked like a New York City street, filled with smoldering, wrecked cars and pandemonium. People covered in ash were everywhere, being escorted by police officers and emergency responders. "As you can see, it's barely controlled chaos down here."

"Thanks, Robert." The video switched to a woman wearing too much make-up behind an anchor's desk at CNN. "To recap, an explosive situation today on 42nd Avenue in Midtown Manhattan just outside the Bank of America. A team of nine masked men attempted to rob the bank while taking hostages and causing significant damage to the street outside. One of the men launched missiles _into_ the traffic on 42nd Avenue, destroying multiple cars and barricading the police from reaching the bank." Tony glanced over his shoulder at the large windows behind him. 42nd Avenue was right outside the Tower. The blue sky was indeed marred by plumes of hazy smoke rising from the city streets below. "The amount of damage can't be ascertained for certain right now, but we're estimating at least a dozen cars and trucks have been completely destroyed, some of which are still burning as fire crews try to deal with the disaster. Even more vehicles were damaged, along with multiple storefronts." She stopped for a second, flustered. "Okay, we have an eye witness account coming in. We're taking you to Jennifer Mayers, who's outside of the area that's been set up for emergency treatment of the victims. Jenn?"

Another woman appeared, her face gleaming with sweat and her hair mussed. She held her microphone close to her chest. She stood with a second woman who had three children pressed to her. A little girl was tightly and protectively enveloped in her arms, and another smaller boy clung to her leg. The older kid was excitedly bouncing. "Thanks, Andrea. Accounts of today's incident are starting to emerge from the poor people trapped on the street during the attack. This family was apparently in their SUV when the explosions began. Can you tell us what happened?"

The woman had obviously been crying quite frantically. Her face was tear-stained and her eyes were red. She looked deeply shaken. "I – I'm not sure. One minute we're stopped at the light and the next the cars next to us were just blowing up. People were screaming and things were burning… And my kids were trapped–"

"And Captain America rescued us!" the kid proclaimed, smiling brighter than the sun and veritably bubbling with excitement.

"Oh, shit," Tony murmured.

The boy was rushing through his tale like this was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him. It probably was. "He ripped the door right off our car and got me and my brother and sister out of there. And then this bus exploded and it was flying right at us and it was going to crush us but he stopped it all by himself."

The news woman seemed somewhat incredulous, her eyes darting to the kid's shirt which proudly proclaimed "AVENGERS ASSEMBLE!" in huge white block letters over cartoon versions of Earth's Mightiest Heroes. "Captain America stopped a bus from crushing you?"

The boy beamed. "Yeah. He just held my sister and pushed back against it and it stopped. He was so strong he didn't even have to use his hands. It was awesome!"

The mother looked a tad embarrassed. "I'm not sure if that really was Captain America. I think it was just some good Samaritan trying to help."

"He said he was Captain America, mom!"

"Uh, J?" Tony asked, a wince twisting his face. "Tell me Rogers is still loafing around my tower and that he had nothing to do with this circus."

JARVIS wasn't about to lie to him. "I informed you approximately six hours ago that Miss Potts was taking Captain Rogers out to lunch," the AI replied. "I must say it is rather hypocritical of you to continually lecture Doctor Banner on his poor listening skills when you are hardly one to talk."

The reporter was blathering on, the camera panning over the destruction and wreckage filling the street. "At this point we can only confirm two of the bank robbers were killed, one during a hostage situation. It appears the same man who intervened on the street with the robber firing on the traffic and pedestrians also rescued the hostages in the bank. Evidence is beginning to suggest that this mystery hero may in fact be Captain America, though NYPD and city officials have at this point issued no formal statement. If it was Captain America, the people he saved during this violent attempted robbery can only be thankful that he was apparently in the right place at the right time."

Tony could hardly stand to listen to this garbage. They switched back to the newsroom where more people were preparing to sensationalize this story, launching into some piece about Rogers' life (in case there were people left in this country that weren't aware that he was the world's first Avenger and a lost hero from World War II and the leader of a team of superheroes that had saved New York a year and a half ago and on and on). Tony winced, looking out the window again at the wisps of smoke dissipating into the otherwise calm and pristine summer afternoon. "Is Pepper alright?"

"Yes," JARVIS answered. "She is with Captain Rogers and requests that you dispatch security to the rear entrance of the building. They are both currently being interviewed by the police, but the media has noticed she was present during the attack. The one casualty was unfortunately one of your company drivers. Once they make the connection, a 'circus', as you so eloquently put it, is likely inevitable. She would prefer to avoid it. Also, Director Fury is calling."

"Of course. Wouldn't be a circus without the ringleader," Tony muttered. "She said she was okay, though, right?"

"She did not say otherwise, though she did seem upset. Shall I put Director Fury through?"

_No._ "If you have to."

Fury's irate tone suddenly blasted through the workshop. "Stark, do I want to know what the hell is going on there? Why is an out-of-uniform Captain America plastered all over every TV in the country?"

Tony deactivated Iron Man's boot with a soft hydraulic hiss. The armor released his leg and he lowered the tingling limb to the floor. Pain shot up his midsection, nearly doubling him over. He stifled the curse bubbling up his throat and pressed his hand to the still tender and bandaged spot under his t-shirt. "How should I know?" he gasped with a grimace. "It wasn't my turn to watch him."

"Actually, it _was_ your turn. That's why he's there, so somebody can keep an eye on him while he recovers from what happened." Fury sounded tense, maybe even concerned. Tony couldn't help but cynically wonder if it was due to actual worry over Rogers or worry over another mess unfolding in Midtown in which an Avenger had become inexplicably involved.

"Not my idea," Tony returned. "Roped into it, in fact. You thawed him, so you take care of him."

"Cold considering he saved your life," Fury stated sharply. "I trust you've been paying enough attention to tell me how he's been. Is he alright?"

Tony winced and not just because of his sore stomach. What he had said _was_ cold and he didn't really know how Steve was doing. He hadn't heard or seen otherwise (of course, he hadn't been listening or looking or even caring, really), so he assumed all was well. "He's been dandy. In fact, I don't know why he's still here. Everything came back normal. All the DNA tests even. Shouldn't he be back out there with you guys already? Kicking ass and taking names? Although he seems totally willing to do that on his own, the good little hero that he is." Tony shook his head in confusion as if Fury could see him. "And why are you so worked up about this? It's not like he did something wrong. Captain America's doing his thing, stopping the bad guys and saving the day. Isn't that what he's supposed to do? Or are you jealous he didn't come in to ask daddy if it was okay? Exigent circum–"

"He's skipped every appointment with the doctors this week," Fury interrupted. He still sounded tense and maybe a little ashamed, like he was betraying Rogers' trust (if a spy could be worried about such mundane and trite things like loyalty). "And he hasn't checked in with the psychiatrists he was supposed to see."

That gave Tony pause. He meant to immediately brush it aside, but the uncomfortable and unwanted sensation of worry assailed him now, too. Admittedly he didn't know Steve all that well, but not continuing with follow-up care seemed… uncharacteristic of him. He followed orders, even requests masquerading as orders. "Maybe he didn't want to be poked and prodded anymore. Maybe he wanted to close the damn book on the whole thing." _God knows I do. _"Is that actual concern for someone in your voice there? Or am I imagining things?"

"Of course I'm concerned," Fury sharply retorted. It was impossible to tell if he was actually hurt by Tony's accusation. He sighed. "Look, as much as I enjoy these little contests we have on who's the bigger asshole, I just want to get a lid on this situation fast and get Rogers back here to have the doctors check him over."

"He's fine," Tony said. "In his element, it seems. Everything is peachy-keen, jelly bean."

"Not everything. Dan Lahey killed himself this morning."

Fury's solemn announcement came rather out of left field. Tony's eyes widened. Something akin to shock washed over him, leaving him chilled and reeling for a moment. He hadn't been conscious during most of their ordeal in Lahey's lab, but the parts he did remember were laced with agony. The bastard had shot him without care or remorse and then used him against Steve and Bruce with equally little regret. That was barbaric, cold and calculating in a way that made his skin crawl and his heart clench in anger and fear. He'd been _nothing _to that man. A tool. A means to an end. He didn't remember much, but he did recall Steve's eyes, bright with terror he'd been trying to hide, the soldier's hands steady against his body and working desperately to keep him alive. He recalled Bruce fighting to keep the Hulk contained, fighting to keep himself together, fighting just as frantically to save him. They'd both been means to an end as well. The whole harrowing, degrading experience had been wrought by a sick bastard who'd been prepared to do _anything_ to see his experiment succeed.

Now he was dead.

He didn't feel nearly as happy about that as he thought he should have. "Jesus," he whispered. "Does Banner know?"

"Nobody knows. We're still trying to get a handle on how he did it." Fury hesitated a moment, as though he was debating revealing more. "I don't feel right about this, Stark. Maybe all the evidence points to this being over, but I don't think it is."

"Are your super-spy senses tingling?"

"I'm serious," came the terse response.

"So am I." He didn't know why, but he suddenly felt protective. Steve surely had a reason why he hadn't seen the SHIELD doctors or therapists, and Tony inexplicably felt like he needed to honor that. Granted, he had no place between the Director of SHIELD and his agents, but he felt like he owed Rogers at least this much. "I'll have Steve call home when he gets back here if that will make you feel better."

"No, that doesn't make me feel better! Whatever Lahey did to him… Well, our chances of figuring that out took a serious blow this morning. Barton and Romanoff have found nothing more on the mercenaries, at least nothing to help us uncover who hired them. The researchers have found nothing from Rogers' test results. The techs going over Lahey's data have found nothing. And I know Banner has been working on it. He'd tell us if he figured anything out, right?"

That question made Tony uncomfortable because he didn't know the answer. And it was a question loaded with subtext, with connotation he didn't want to hear. He pretended to be nonchalant. "Right."

"We have mountains of information that all leads us back to the same damn place we were two weeks ago. We have no clue as to what this experiment did or if the Cap is okay."

"Maybe it did nothing. Maybe the super soldier serum _did its job_ and protected Rogers from the super evil serum. Ever consider that?" Tony liked to argue, and he didn't mind being difficult now and then (or all the time, if he felt like it). This was getting a little ridiculous. He hadn't even been involved in the debates and discussions over Rogers' well-being. He had no idea what the data looked like, what the statistics and test results had confirmed, what the conclusions were. He had no basis for an opinion, educated or otherwise. But that had never stopped him before. "Just leave the guy alone. Obviously he's okay enough to save a bunch of people from some extremely over-the-top bank robbers."

Fury didn't seem appeased. "I want him back here. I'd rather he came in voluntarily."

"What the hell does that mean? Is that a threat?"

"Of course not. But we _need _him to report in. Until we know for certain he's alright, he can't be involved with things like this! This is the reason why I relieved him of duty!"

That disturbing need to protect Rogers reared its ugly head again. This time it was mixed with a less-disturbing inclination to just not cooperate with SHIELD. "You can't bench him forever. If he says he's fine, he's fine. Look, I'll tell him you called and I'll tell him to report in tomorrow morning and I'll make sure he doesn't leave the Tower until then. If Barton's back, you should send him to come pick him up. The two of them were connected at the hip, so I'm sure that'll smooth things over. Does that satisfy you?"

The tone of Tony's voice suggested he didn't give a damn whether or not Fury found that agreeable. Tony didn't like Rogers, but he sure as hell wasn't going to force the soldier to do something he clearly didn't want to do on behalf of a shadow spy organization he didn't even come close to trusting. Thankfully, Fury didn't argue further. Perhaps he knew his hands were tied. Even if Captain America had been created by SSR (which had become SHIELD) and had rescued by SHIELD and worked for SHIELD, SHIELD didn't own him. And hopefully nobody owned Steve Rogers, so even if Fury was considering pulling rank on the captain, Steve would stand tall and tell him off if he didn't want to comply. "First thing tomorrow morning. 0700."

"Sure thing. Nice talking to you." JARVIS ended the phone call. Tony stood still in the room a moment, not quite sure what to do or what to think. His abdomen was throbbing again. He'd been pushing himself too hard, not respecting the severity of the wound and stressing it too much and too soon. He'd been so caught up in trying to prove to himself that he was fine, that he himself could shake this off and get back to normal, that he'd blinded himself to pretty much everything and everyone else. That was who he was. He powered through his problems and got past his pain and his fear by tinkering and building and inventing. It was what he had done after Afghanistan. It was what he had done after New York. And it was what he had done this time, too. Maybe it hadn't been the best course. Maybe it hadn't been the best course for any of them. Hell, he hadn't said a word about the whole experience to Bruce since he'd felt well enough to be up and about a week ago. They'd carried on like nothing had happened. And Steve was obviously trying to do the same, only he didn't have the familiarity of home and the comfort of friends to help him (or enable him, for that matter). Tony knew he wasn't the most well-adjusted person, and his experiences with the Mandarin had opened his eyes to a few things, namely that isolation and obsession were not good ways to get through tough stuff. But here he was, trying to do it again. And so was Bruce, burying himself in his work. And Steve, doing… well, whatever it was he'd been doing the last couple of weeks. If Tony was having a hard time getting over their ordeal and he'd spent most of it unconscious, he couldn't imagine how they were feeling.

Suddenly he felt really guilty. That wasn't something he felt often. He didn't like it. "JARVIS, you noticed anything off about Rogers?"

"Off in what way, sir?"

"Any way that rings of not adapting too well to being a human guinea pig. And don't be difficult."

The AI paused a moment. That was more than enough to alert Tony that he had indeed noticed something. "Physically he seems well. I have gathered data on his physiological attributes from SHIELD and compared that to what I have measured during his exercise routines and my findings indicate his endurance, strength, and agility are all normal."

"He works out?"

"Yes. Quite often in fact."

"I thought the serum was supposed to keep him fit all the time."

"Well, sir, I believe working out, as you put it, is for him what inventing is for you. A comfort. Something that distracts him from his pain."

Tony grimaced. JARVIS was too damn smart. "So he is in pain. Physical or mental? And how bad is it?"

"Both, I believe, though he has not complained to anyone of it so it is difficult for me to judge." JARVIS hesitated. "Captain Rogers has been suffering some rather distressing sleep disturbances."

"How distressing?"

"Severely."

Tony gritted his teeth, shifting his weight again to ease the strain off his abdomen. He limped to the window, staring down at the smoke. "And you didn't think to inform anyone of this?"

"Considering the trauma he endured, I believed some level of persistent nightmares and even physical discomfort to be inevitable. He has exhibited classic signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Difficulty sleeping. A flattened emotional affect, though this is also difficult for me to judge considering I have no personality baseline with which to compare. Difficulty concentrating. Increasing avoidance. Hypervigilance."

"Who the hell made you a shrink?"

"I have learned a few things as your assistant."

"Don't be a smart ass. You should have said something."

"Captain Rogers asked me not to tell anyone," JARVIS admitted. "I respected his wishes."

Tony shook his head. As much as he would never admit it aloud, he was fearful that Fury was right. Rogers needed a professional to help him through this. "If he can't sleep, he needs to get help."

"Ah, yes, sir. As I said before, you are one to talk. And your version of help is normally found at the bottom of a bottle, which we both know is not an option for the captain."

Tony sighed irately. They all had their problems. They all had scars, emotional and physical, that went deep. He didn't feel qualified to deal with his own issues, let alone Rogers'. If Steve didn't want to talk about it, maybe it was best to let it alone. It wasn't his place (_God, please let it never be my place_) to dictate to Steve how he needed to handle his troubles. Things healed. They always did. Still, Steve was either having a hell of an aversion to all things medical and research related (which was completely understandable) or he was trying to hide something. It was impossible to tell which.

He hadn't signed on to deal with this.

And then there was Bruce. Another plethora of mental issues wrapped up in a neat and tidy little bow of fake but somehow convincing normalcy, and Bruce's issues went deep. Tony certainly didn't want Bruce to find out from SHIELD that Lahey had killed himself. Considering how wracked with guilt Bruce had seemed after what had happened, discovering that Lahey had committed suicide would only compound the problem. Banner had done an admirable job of seeming composed, but Tony knew him too well not to see the shame and regret weighing on him, wearing him down. Bruce liked to talk shop a lot when they worked together, mumbling his way through complex problems and equally complex solutions. But he'd been utterly silent, so much so that Tony wasn't even sure _what_ he was working on. At some point he had been looking over Rogers' test results (was Steve even aware that Bruce had access to them? Tony didn't know, and he wasn't going to ask), but that had been days ago. He hadn't even seen Bruce since lunchtime where they'd chatted about subatomic particles over sandwiches before heading to their respective labs. "Where's Banner?" he asked.

"Doctor Banner is currently on the 31st floor," JARVIS responded. "He asked that he not be disturbed. Shall I disturb him anyway?"

"Did Pepper say when they'd be back?"

"Any minute now. I took the liberty of summoning security as she requested."

Tony sighed, tipping his head slightly. "Alright. Uh, well, what time is it?"

"Nearly five o'clock."

"Dinner? Order something she likes. And something Rogers likes. And have it brought up in case they're hungry. And make sure the news assholes stay away. Pepper has people who handle that sort of thing, right? Get them over here ASAP."

"Yes, sir."

"I guess I'm gonna go down and wait for them to get back."

"A wise choice, sir."

* * *

Any minute now ended up being more than an hour. Tony hated waiting almost as much as he hated being handed things, and both of which had occurred with an extremely frustrating intensity as the PR and security personnel from Stark Industries flooded the ground floor of the Tower awaiting Pepper's return. They looked to him for direction, for how to phrase a press release (which was sadly necessary since the news networks had pieced together that Pepper had been present at the attack and that the man responsible for saving everyone had indeed been Captain America and that she and Steve had been together beforehand which of course led the reporters to ask why which _of course_ prompted a flurry of theories ranging from Tony Stark's girl cheating on him with Captain America to Captain America acting as Iron Man's bodyguard to the terrorists actually belonging to some sort of convoluted plot to bring down the Avengers). It was all outrageous bullshit and it all too easily reminded Tony of why he hated the media. His answers to the people surrounding him and pestering him were of two sorts: "it's your job, so figure it out" and "no goddamn comment – make it sound nicer than that".

Eventually the company car pulled into the garage beneath the Tower from the rear entrance. Security was there to calm the reporters trying to follow it and keep them away. Tony was waiting in front of the elevator, wearily trading his weight from one foot to another because at this point his abdomen was a pulsing mass of misery in the middle of his body. The sleek, black car stopped, and one of the security guards opened the door.

Pepper was out and across the few feet between them in a second. She looked okay, filthy but okay, her hair mussed and her face streaked with dirt. Her previously white blouse was mostly blackened by soot, which she smeared onto his t-shirt as she collapsed into his arms. He cupped the back of her head in his hand. "Hey, you alright?"

"I'm okay," Pepper said. She pulled away. Her eyes were bright and she managed a weak smile. She clung to him for a moment more, closing her eyes and lowering her head back to his shoulder. As Tony held her, he watched Steve get out of the car. And right away he knew something wasn't right. He'd never imagined that Captain America could look so… _messed up_. He was extremely pale around the dirt and ash covering his face. His eyes looked positively hollow, vacant like he wasn't quite there, and they were made darker by the heavy bags beneath them. And even though he was doing an admirable job of trying not to, he was wincing. Perpetually. Tony knew insomnia and nightmares could do a number on a person. The last time he'd seen Rogers had admittedly been a few days before, but he didn't recall the soldier looking so haggard. This wasn't the same man who'd walked into his building a couple of weeks ago in a brand new uniform, all cool confidence and silent strength. This wasn't the same man his father had never shut up about. This wasn't the same man who'd flown into enemy territory on a fool's quest to save his best friend and who'd stared down Nazis and HYDRA madmen and who'd sacrificed himself to save the world and who'd led the Avengers into battle with a cool voice and a smart plan when the odds had been insurmountably stacked against them. This was some stranger with a white face and dead eyes whose every move seemed to scream fragility and defeat.

"How about you, Cap?" Tony asked, wondering if his eyes weren't playing tricks on him and kind of hoping they were. "You alright?"

Steve looked plain exhausted as he walked around the back of the car. He didn't speak, managing something that resembled a nod. Tony felt even more concerned as Pepper left his embrace and reached over for Steve's hand. She took it gently and pulled him toward the elevator. "Come on. Let's get you upstairs so you can rest."

Tony released a slow breath, feeling just a tiny bit jealous that Pepper was so concerned with Steve. But he stuffed it, dismissing the people still trying to hand him things. The three of them stepped inside the elevator and Pepper immediately ordered, "Take us up, JARVIS."

"Of course, Miss Potts."

"There's dinner, if you're hungry," Tony said as the elevator began to move and the silence began to irk him. He stood between Steve and Pepper, and the tension radiating from Rogers was palpable. Tony decided not to beat around the bush. He didn't do that for anyone, hesitate or tip-toe or dance around the elephant in the room, so he just went for it. "So… I hear you guys had a busy day."

Steve didn't react, but Pepper did. She inconspicuously reached for Tony's hand and grabbed it tightly, almost painfully so. But, surprising them both, Steve answered. "That's one way to put it," he said. "Had to stop them, though."

"You certainly did that," Tony said. "But I swear you are a magnet for trouble. Two hostage situations in two weeks. You oughta come with a warning label."

Steve actually smiled a little at that. It looked strained and weak, but it was better than nothing. "This one ended better than the last one," he said. He darted a look at Tony from the corner of his eye. "Only the bad guys got hurt." His expression hardened into something not quite readable. "Except your driver. Sorry about that." He looked down, worrying his lower lip little with his teeth. "I saw it coming. Didn't move fast enough, I guess."

Pepper looked aghast. She shared a concerned look with Tony. For his own part, Tony was surprised, but not because he thought such a statement was out of character for Rogers. He figured (hell, he _knew_) that Rogers was the kind of self-sacrificing idiot who took the loss of every man seriously, who blamed himself for his short-comings and failures even when said short-comings and failures were not at all his fault. Even when the situation was intractable, fated to end as it ended, he took the burden of guilt, shouldered it like he was born to do it. It was the sort of personality trait that Tony despised because it reeked of either false martyrdom or complete, self-deprecating sincerity, and with Rogers it was definitely the latter. Like he really did take every mistake to heart and he really did think he could have prevented this or stopped that. So it wasn't the fact that he was saying this that was surprising. It was the way he was saying it. Not because he was driven by regret (although there was that) or because it was what he was supposed to say, but because he honestly believed he could have done it. Like he truly had seen it coming but just had failed to move fast enough.

Creepy.

Pepper darted another glance at Tony. "Steve, you did everything you could. You saved my life. Thanks."

Steve snapped out of his thoughts a beat or two after Pepper said that, like he was still contemplating it all, running through the scenario in his head and trying to figure out where he'd faltered. "Sure," he said.

That didn't seem to be enough for Pepper, and she nudged Tony painfully in the calf with her shoe. "Oh, yeah. Thanks for saving Pepper's life," Tony said. He rolled his eyes when he realized what he hadn't done since they'd all come back to the Tower two weeks ago. "And thanks for, you know, sticking your hands in my guts and stopping me from bleeding to death. I appreciate it." Pepper kicked him again only harder. "Ow! What!"

"Steve, really, it wasn't your fault. And if it hadn't been for you, far more people would've died. Don't be so hard on yourself," Pepper soothed. She watched Steve, concerned that he wasn't looking at her, that he didn't even seem to be listening. She moved past Tony and brushed her hand down Rogers' arm, which finally caught his attention, before hugging him close and standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. He awkwardly hugged her back.

Tony groaned inwardly and tried to keep his mouth shut. Thankfully, the elevator dinged and the doors slid open and revealed the main common floor. The three of them walked down the spacious hallway. It was tense, awkwardly so, as they headed toward the kitchen. The smell of pizza wafted toward them, and Tony's stomach growled in spite of himself. "Hopefully dinner's still hot," he said.

"I'm sure it's fine," Pepper said. She stopped and kissed Tony. "I'm going to go take a quick shower. I feel disgusting. Then we can eat?"

"Sure you don't need help with that?" Tony asked coyly. And it wasn't just an excuse not to be left alone with Rogers.

Pepper wanly smiled. "Is Bruce coming?" Tony's smile slid. He underestimated her sometimes. Trying to get Bruce and Steve together at the same table. Trying to get them to talk, or trying to get Bruce to take a look (even if it was cursory and informal) at Steve. It didn't matter because it was doomed to failure. But Pepper was eternally persistent and eternally optimistic. She had to be to put up with loving him.

Still, he wasn't overly enthused about having some sort of group dinner at the moment. He'd figured this would be more of a buffet, a grab-a-slice-and-go sort of thing. He wasn't in the mood for much else. And besides that Tony still hadn't thought about how to tell Bruce about Lahey. Having them gathered around a table given all this unresolved guilt and worry and whatever else had the makings of a disaster, or at least something fantastically uncomfortable. "Dunno. He's down playing with his plants. He didn't want to be bothered."

"Well, ask him to come," Pepper said. She glanced to Steve, who was watching them with this reticent look on his filthy face. "Maybe we should start eating together regularly as long as you're staying with us, Steve. I think we could all use the company." She was clearly worried for Rogers. Tony wondered what the hell had gone on between them that day (besides the obvious near-death experience). Pepper had that look about her that she wore when she was truly concerned about a situation she couldn't fix. To her credit, there weren't many. Pepper fixed his company, straightened out the media disasters he inevitably made, picked up his messes, and intervened on his behalf. That was what she did. She fixed things. And she was going to try her best to fix this. She smiled brightly, disarmingly. "I'll be right back."

After she left, Tony stuffed his hands into the pockets of his gray slacks and fidgeted. Then he got tired of standing still like an awkward loser and sauntered into the kitchen adjacent to the dining area and opened the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator. "You want a beer? A soda? Or a pop? What did they call it back in the Stone Age?"

There was no answer. Tony fished a bottle of beer out of the fridge. Then he grabbed another. "After a day like today, you need a beer. Or something harder. Not that it matters, I guess, since you can't get drunk. I can, though. That's a relief." Still it was silent. Tony closed the door of the refrigerator and looked at his companion. "Steve?"

Steve had closed his eyes. He was slouched against the wall of the dining area, his head bowed to his chest. He was breathing sharply through his nose in a way that suggested he was fighting desperately just to suffer through something, just to hang on. Sweat glistened on his forehead. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides and every muscle in his upper body was taut and bulging through the thin cotton of his polo shirt. "Cap? You okay?"

The soldier still didn't answer. Tony was honestly getting more than a little concerned, but (though he could hardly admit it) he was slightly fearful of approaching the other man. Rogers had at least fifty pounds of serum-enhanced muscle and a good few inches on him, and it was more than obvious he wasn't exactly all there at the moment. Startling him seemed patently unwise, so he walked closer slowly. "Steve!"

Rogers snapped out of it, lurching off the wall. Then he gasped and brought a shaking hand to his forehead. He wiped the perspiration off his brow, smearing dirt and soot as he did so. He looked at Stark in a mixture of shame and anger. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Sorry? What the hell are you apologizing for? You don't look good. Did anyone check you over after you did your hero thing?"

"No."

It was like talking to a five year-old. Tony gritted his teeth in exasperation. "Well, don't you think a doctor should look at you?"

"No."

Steve's response couldn't have possibly been curter. The dark shade of his eyes and every hard line of his body veritably screamed that Tony should _stay the hell away_. But Tony was an expert at ignoring sound advice. He stared at the captain, wondering if perhaps Fury was right. Perhaps there was something wrong that went deeper than just PTSD. Much like JARVIS, he really didn't have a baseline with which to compare Steve's current behavior. He'd only spent a couple of days with the man off and on over the last eighteen months. Who was to say that Rogers wasn't a lot moodier when all of the poise and confidence and purpose of Captain America was stripped away? The guy was totally defined by his superhero persona, this ideal soldier and war hero, this symbol of complete perfection. _Nobody_ was perfect, and maybe Rogers was feeling lost and little resentful at having who he was pulled out from under him.

And maybe the serum wasn't perfect, either. Maybe it was struggling to contend with literally bringing Steve back from the dead, and there was damage it was trying to heal that the tests hadn't shown.

Maybe. But Tony was too smart to be satisfied by that. "Here. Drink." He offered the bottle of beer to Steve. Steve looked at it like he'd never seen a beer before. He seemed confused at what he was supposed to do. "Having a senior moment? Drink. Beer."

Steve shook his head. "No. Thanks, but I'm not thirsty. Or hungry."

Tony was starting to get annoyed. "I ordered all this food. There are starving children in the world. Eat it."

Steve didn't even look at the boxes of pizza spread across the table behind them. "I'm just going to get cleaned up and sleep."

Exasperation went through Tony; he couldn't help the frustration. He'd tried doing something nice, tried to offer up something close to companionship for someone whose only friend was probably on the other side of the world, and Steve was completely ignoring it. This was why he hadn't wanted Rogers here, why he'd been trying to avoid him. They fundamentally didn't get along. Steve pushed himself off the wall and started across the room toward the elevator on the other side. "Fury called while you were out."

Steve stopped. He turned and regarded Tony with piercing eyes. "What did he say?"

"He wants you back," Tony answered. Suddenly he felt like an ass for bringing this up when Rogers was obviously troubled. Steve's face loosened in a hopeful expression. "Not back for work, though. He wants you to see the doctors. And the shrinks."

That pleasant expression shattered. "No," he declared tersely.

"You know, Cap, maybe it's not such a bad idea. Pretending something isn't wrong won't make it go away."

"You don't know anything about it. And you don't know anything about me."

"Nope. But I do know you're sitting here ignoring the obvious instead of getting some help. You look like shit. JARVIS says you're not sleeping."

"Please, sir, do not bring me into this," the AI whined in a small, sheepish voice.

Steve did appear a little betrayed. "Would you sleep after somebody strapped you down and–" His voice failed him and he looked away sharply. His gaze narrowed on the expensive gray carpet beneath their feet. Tony's own irritation melted a bit at seeing the pained look clenching Steve's face. He knew something about suffering, about trauma. He knew what it was like to be tortured. But as horrible and degrading as that was, this was… different. Not necessarily worse, but torture of another nature to which he couldn't quite relate. What Steve had endured was cold and dehumanizing. Steve had been reduced to a variable in someone else's equation. He'd been forced to submit, denied a choice, denied the power and opportunity to struggle. Tony had always been able to struggle when the Ten Rings had taken him captive in that cave in the middle of the Afghan mountains. Admittedly Tony hadn't seen what had happened in Lahey's chamber, but the haunted look on Bruce's face and the helplessness in Steve's eyes and his own imagination was enough to convince him that this wasn't over despite everyone's collective wishful thinking.

Steve looked like he was hurting, like he was on the verge of tears. The verge of physical and emotional collapse. Tony stowed his own anger and sighed softly. "Look, I don't care what you do. Go back to SHIELD if you want. Stay here if you want. That's your business. I'm just passing on the message." The miserable expression on Steve's face was enough to cool his ire even further. "Hey, screw it, right? Go get cleaned up and then come and eat. Pepper's trying to help, so you might as well just go along with it. If you haven't noticed, she likes to control things."

Steve actually smiled at that and suddenly he didn't appear so beaten and defeated. "She's a nice lady," he commented. He looked at Tony squarely. The tears were gone from his eyes. "Make sure you appreciate her."

"I do," Tony returned. He tried not to be miffed that he was being reminded of something he already knew (well, in the past he hadn't been so diligent about making Pepper feel appreciated, but that was the past and he was trying to marry her for God's sake). "Since when are you two all BFF?"

"What? I – I don't know–"

"What did you do, spend the day shopping and gabbing about One Direction? No, you know what? I don't want to know and I don't care." He did care because he had an increasingly bothersome feeling that the two of them had talked at length, and they had talked about _him_. "Just put a smile on your face for a few minutes and humor her. She seems to think talking helps. Women always think that. Me, when things go to shit, I concentrate on work."

Steve's smile grew rueful, almost fond. "Howard always used to say that," he murmured.

Tony definitely did not want to go there. Anger and hurt burst to life inside him and then settled into a low simmer that he wanted to keep under control. And that inclination to control it lasted all of a second. "Well, like father like son." The acid in his voice was cutting. _Good job not letting it get to you._

And Steve immediately took offense. "He was a good man. And he was my friend."

"He was an asshole. And you're an asshole for bringing it up. Let's just not do this now. Go get cleaned up."

Any small modicum of connection that might have been struggling to life between them had just been stomped to death. A dozen different emotions flickered through Steve's too bright eyes, not the least of which was anger and grief. "I said I'm not hungry. I'm just going to get my things and get out of here."

Tony winced as Steve turned and started to stalk away. "No, wait, Cap. Come on. Steve! Don't be like that." Rogers didn't stop, forcing Tony to set the beer bottles down on the counter before racing across the room to catch up with the other man's long strides. That, of course, aggravated his injuries, but he schooled his face against the grimace. This was bullshit, having to coddle Captain America like this. Part of him definitely wanted to let Rogers walk, to get rid of him and send him on his way back to SHIELD and be done with this entire mess. But that didn't feel right, because Pepper had wanted Steve here. And what Pepper wanted, Tony tried to get for her. "Steve! Stop. Grow up."

Rogers turned and flashed Tony an irate glare. And all of the sudden, he was wavering on his feet. Tony was too shocked to do anything for what seemed like forever, watching in slow-motion as Captain America staggered and nearly fainted. "Whoa. Whoa!" He grabbed Steve's arm, Steve's arm that was so tense he could hardly bend it, and steadied him. Hazy blue eyes focused on him. "Alright, no more bullshit. You need to eat. And then you need to sleep, like a week's worth of sleep. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine!" Steve roared. "Stop asking!"

"Christ, Rogers, don't get mad at me. And you are _not_ fine. Don't be such a moron. Even Captain America needs help after something like this. Stop acting like a baby and just go see somebody already." That wasn't the right thing to say. But the filter between his brain and his mouth always shut off during stressful situations. Steve wrenched his arm away, glaring furiously at Tony. Tony had never seen Captain America look quite so malevolent. It was much more than intimidating. It was frightening, deeply and surprisingly so. "Just take it easy." He couldn't quite believe it, but he felt threatened. He felt like he was in danger. Seriously in danger. He backed away.

But in a blink that baleful look was gone like it had never been there, and Steve was wincing again and shrinking back and seemingly crumbling before Stark's very eyes. He grunted, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a hand to his forehead. Tony swallowed thickly. "Headache?"

"I don't know," Steve said around a breath. He was stock still. Something about this didn't feel right. Tony couldn't put his finger on it. Like the obvious explanation wasn't quite enough, like this wasn't just PTSD or nightmares or bad memories. It was significantly more disturbing than hypervigilance or anxiety or trouble sleeping or even these weird mood swings that seemed to be sweeping over a man who'd had been the rock of virtue just a few days ago. Something serious was wrong. In a word, Steve was unstable.

Tony didn't know if he should help, and even if he should, he didn't know what to do. "You want to sit?"

"No, I don't…" Steve actually _whimpered_ through his teeth. He doubled over, looking dizzy and distressed and a breath away from throwing up. Tony tried to grab him, but the soldier was too big and his own injuries made it too difficult. He settled for placing what he hoped was a comforting hand on Rogers' back.

"Don't touch me! _Get away from me!_"

One second Rogers was bent and troubled and clearly in pain, and the next he was literally in Tony's face, one powerful hand clenched around his throat and his eyes blazing in rage. He lifted Tony a good foot off the ground like it was nothing and was across the room in a couple of gigantic steps. He slammed the inventor against the wall and held him there. Agony rippled up and down Tony's belly and panic and terror raced in his heart. He didn't understand. Was this some kind of flashback? _Oh God!_

But the hand around his throat wasn't tight. Threatening, but not strangling. And despite being held at Roger's mercy, he wasn't being hurt. Steve's eyes were filled with fire, with anguish and pain but most of all with fury. He was holding back something very dark and very powerful. "Don't you _ever_ touch me again."

"Steve, please–"

The lights went out.

Tony could hear the power surge a split second before it happened, a loud electrical whine that heralded energy building up rapidly and unsafely. A bulb popped somewhere. Appliances shorted. Now it was shadowy and completely silent.

Steve stared at Tony a moment more, holding his gaze and his body hostage. As if the dawning realization of what he'd done, of what he was doing, was finally reaching him, the wrathful expression slipped from his face. He let Tony go. He stepped back, his eyes widening, his mouth limply falling open in shock. "Tony, I…" He was horrified. His hands shook, and he glanced down at them before returning his gaze back to the man before him. "I – I'm so sorry."

Tony didn't answer, couldn't answer, because even if he had managed to figure out what to say underneath his own shock and fear, Steve was gone before he could say it. He swallowed through a dry throat, pushing his own trembling body away from the wall. He raised his hand to his neck and found it fine, unhurt in fact, but the feel of Steve's strong fingers pressing and shaking with strength and strain and _so close_ to killing him… "What the hell?" he whispered. He rubbed vigorously at his throat just to rid himself of the ghostly, unsettling sensation.

Power was restored within a matter of seconds as the Tower's self-regulating computer systems recovered. Tony looked around as the lights blinked back on and the appliances came back to life, whirring and humming softly and thankfully filling the vacuous and hungry quiet. "JARVIS, what was that?"

"I am not certain, sir. The power surge did not come from the arc reactor." The AI paused a moment. "All systems are coming back online. Some are taking longer to reboot. However, everything seems undamaged."

_Undamaged._ Just like his throat. Tony swallowed again, anticipating pain but there was none. He was fine.

But Steve clearly wasn't. There was something wrong. No more denying it. No more trying to hide it or ignore it or rationalize it. _Something was_ _terribly wrong_.

"Tony?" Pepper's voice cut through the whirlwind of his thoughts. She appeared at the entrance of the dining area. She had showered, dressed in comfortable jeans and an MIT t-shirt, but she hadn't finished putting her make-up on and her hair still looked damp. "What happened? Is the arc reactor–"

"Did you see what happened? During the robbery." Tony's words were tight and hard and filled with uncharacteristic worry.

Pepper's look of concern only grew sharper. She winced helplessly. "No, I was back where it was safe. Steve got me out of the car and then he – what is it?"

"JARVIS, is there footage of the attack? News video. YouTube. Whatever."

"I am looking, sir. It will take me a moment to process it."

Tony was across the room in front of the huge windows where the holographic computer terminal was. "All those people there. There's gotta be some. And get whatever that bank had for security feeds. Hurry the hell up."

Pepper followed him. She grabbed his arm, confusion splayed across her face. "What happened? Where did Steve go?"

"Was he okay today?" Tony asked. "I mean, before the robbery."

Pepper nodded, lost and reeling and growing increasingly fearful. She stammered into an answer. "Yes. I mean, he was quiet but he always seems to be quiet. He looked horrible when we left, but he got better as the day went on. Why? Tony?" She grabbed his arm more forcefully, trying to turn him to face her. JARVIS was starting to send data to the terminal, videos people had taken of the events on 42nd Avenue. Cell phone shots and poor, shaky movies and images of people screaming and smoke and burning cars. JARVIS was processing them quickly, identifying those with the best views of the incident. "Tony, what happened?"

"I don't know yet. But I need you to stay away from Rogers."

"What? Why?"

"We were all wrong," Tony declared. "Lahey's experiment did do something to him."

Pepper's face went completely white, and her eyes widened in horror. "Oh, God. What? What is it? Is he okay?"

"Just go to our penthouse and stay there. I need to know you're safe. If anything happens, you hide in there. You know how to get Iron Man to you if you need it."

"Tony–"

"Pep, please. I'm not screwing around here. _Go._"

She watched him fearfully a second longer. It wasn't that she didn't trust him; they'd gotten past that issue months and months ago. It was that she didn't like being pushed aside, didn't like being dismissed when she was this worried. However, she nodded and agreed. He grabbed her hand and kissed her palm once before turning back to the images before him. Pepper let go of his fingers and walked away quickly.

Tony released a slow sigh, trying to center himself. "This is all we got?"

"Yes. What is it you want to find?"

Honestly he didn't know. Something, _anything_, to validate his fears. Or, better yet, invalidate them, but Tony _knew _in his heart that he was right. "Where did Rogers go?" he asked as he started tearing through the videos.

"Biometric sensors are not functional as of yet," JARVIS responded, "but the elevator stopped on his floor approximately a minute ago. Shall I summon Doctor Banner or call Director Fury?"

"No and no. Not until we know what we're dealing with here." If this was as bad as he feared and Steve really had been altered by Lahey's experiment, combining that absolute unknown with the always variable danger of the Hulk seemed like a really bad idea. And he didn't want to involve Fury until he knew for sure something was wrong with Steve because he could trust the master spy about as far as he could throw him and the last thing they needed was SHIELD making this already bad situation worse.

"Those are all of the videos I have been able to locate," JARVIS said after another moment. "I have multiple angles of the security footage of the bank robbery."

"Give me all of them."

"It would help if you would tell me what it is you are thinking."

"That kid…" Tony shook his head, his fingers flying through the display as he quickly analyzed and swiped away images. "That kid with the family that Steve saved. He said Cap stopped a bus from crushing them. He said Steve was so strong he didn't even use his hands."

A long moment of tense, incredulous silence followed. "You cannot suspect… It is not possible."

Tony closed his eyes and saw the hatred and fear and agony burning in Steve's gaze. The madness simmering. That hand around his throat. The power behind it. The violence behind it. The lights going out. Like anger being funneled from a murderous grip into another outlet. "I hope you're right," he said, "because I think Steve's in a very dark place, and if his emotions are altering the world around him… Well, that would be bad."

JARVIS hesitated as if he couldn't believe what Tony was suggesting. Maybe he couldn't. It was frankly beyond belief. "Indeed."

"So let's figure this out fast because if he loses it, I have a feeling we're going to have a problem on our hands." He spent some time quickly scanning through all the footage, working almost maniacally, and when he came to a black and white security feed from the bank of Captain America expertly and effortlessly taking out the robbers, he watched, transfixed. As keen and powerful as his brain was, it utterly failed to digest what he saw.

"Holy crap," he said. "Did he just…"

"I believe so, sir."

Tony reached into the holographic display and pulled the video feed to him. He zoomed in and replayed it. Once. Twice. Four times. In slow motion. From different angles. It was always the same. It was a section that was little more than a second long of Steve kneeling in front of an armed robber who was holding a woman hostage with a gun to her head. Tony watched, confused and shocked and alarmed beyond all rational thought, as Steve held out his hand toward a gun that was a good ten feet away from him on the floor. A gun that just _flew toward him_. It happened so fast. And with that gun firmly in his hand, Steve stood and shot the man in the head.

"Yeah, we have a problem," Tony whispered. "A really, _really_ big problem."


	8. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER:** _Iron Man 3, The Incredible Hulk,_ _Captain America: The First Avenger,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **As always, thanks for all the comments! You guys are the best.

**UNSUSTAINABLE**

**8**

The super soldier serum wasn't turning out to be the stabilizing agent Bruce had hoped.

He wasn't sure why, exactly, just that it wasn't conferring the protective barrier against Extremis' more catastrophic side-effects that he thought it would have. It might have been that he hadn't properly extracted a good enough sample from Steve's blood. Bruce had known that that was going to be a difficult task and a serious issue. The serum wasn't simply some chemical floating around in Steve's body. It was completely ingrained into every part of him, in all of his cells from blood to bone to muscle to neuron. It was part of his DNA, and that made it an extremely complicated and arduous task to even determine where the man ended and the serum began. As Bruce labored day and night over this project, he wondered if Doctor Erskine had had any concept of how his experiment would fundamentally alter human biology, how very deeply the serum would interact with Steve's body. Modern genetics hadn't come of age until after Project: Rebirth, though the rough idea of DNA had been present before then. Still, the technology to truly _see_ the effects the serum had on a chemical, cellular level hadn't existed back then. And the technology to isolate it didn't exist today. Recreating it truly was a Holy Grail of biomedical research, an unattainable pursuit that had driven many men both good and bad, and he should have known better. He should have remembered how fruitless this was. No matter how hard he labored and thought and worked and struggled, he couldn't isolate a pure sample.

So there was that. But what he had developed was fairly similar, a decent derivative as far as he could tell. And even that wasn't cutting it. He'd integrated it into his plant serum (which was another problem in and of itself because the super soldier serum and Extremis seemed to react fairly strongly to each other and not in a way that was beneficial to either). He'd still managed to balance his serum derivative with Extremis and infused the result into his plants. And it worked. Somewhat. This latest crop had survived longer, at any rate, the longest of any. They grew fast and bloomed verdantly, producing fruit larger and lusher than he'd seen before, but they'd still died when the Extremis reaction grew too violent and out of control. He stared angrily at the latest smoldering mess. The plant had seemed entirely healthy a few minutes ago, and then in a second it had burned to death, leaving a scorched pot and burned soil and a few flakes of ash. There was too much excess heat. Excess energy. The serum had stymied it, fought it off for a while, but it hadn't been enough. And now Bruce sat, once again at a loss, wondering if this whole thing wasn't fundamentally flawed. The super soldier serum couldn't be parsed from the man, at least not to the extent where it was usable. Everything he'd tried had failed. He didn't want to think about that beyond this silly experiment because the implications were vast and disturbing.

Bruce sighed, letting all of his frustration and disappointment out on the long, cleansing breath, and leaned back in his chair. His back hurt from sitting hunched over the lab bench and his computer all day (who was he kidding? For the last few days). He rolled his head, trying to relieve a stubborn kink in his neck. Maybe now would be a good time to surrender. He felt like he hadn't even seen Tony in days (although he was pretty certain he'd seen the other man at lunch time, hadn't he?), and he was in desperate need of a real meal and a shower and a shave and sleep. He'd been obsessed – there really wasn't any other word for it – with trying to make this work. And he'd been ashamed – there really wasn't any other word for that, either – because he was doing all of this without Steve's knowledge. He knew Steve had been back to see Doctor Wright as Wright had contacted him a few times over the last couple of weeks with additional test results and additional blood and tissue and CSF samples. Bruce didn't know if Wright had told Rogers that he was sharing his data with him. He certainly couldn't have told Steve what Bruce was doing with it because Bruce hadn't had the guts to tell anyone, not even Tony.

It was wrong, and he damn well knew it. What he was doing violated any number of ethical research principles. And it hadn't started out this way. He'd done as he'd promised. He'd looked over Steve's data carefully, searching for clues as to what Dan's drug had done, but there'd been nothing to find. Everything was completely normal. Blood panels. DNA results. CSF markers. No sign of aberrant cell behavior, metabolism, or growth. No sign of radiation damage. Steve was completely healthy. And after assuring himself and Wright of that, temptation had reared its ugly head. It had always been there, but he'd ignored it for days, focusing on returning to his research and doing what he was supposed to do. However, as he'd realized back after the interrogation at SHIELD Headquarters, Dan was right about him. Over time his resistance had waned. He wasn't strong enough to not know, to be satisfied with the leaving the problem unsolved, and one thing had quickly become another. He was just going to examine the serum. He was just going to investigate it further, to try to figure out how the serum had saved Steve's life, how resilient it truly was. He was just going to see how the serum would react when healthy cells were exposed to Extremis. He was just going to see if Extremis and the serum could be spliced together somehow. And now he was here, deeply buried in this problem with no answers to show for it, drowning in his questions and knowing full well he should come up for air. Obsession. God, it was a weakness.

But this was going to end itself because he'd run out of blood samples. Bruce didn't know if Wright was satisfied this was all over and had simply stopped sending them or if Steve had stopped going to see him. The reason why was moot. He'd used everything he'd been given. The only way to get more would be to ask Steve, and he could never do that. He couldn't before, back when Rogers had been nothing more than an acquaintance, his captain for a fateful moment when aliens and hellfire had descended upon New York. Now Rogers had been victimized by Dan and nearly killed. The inappropriateness of asking someone who'd been through what Steve had been through to submit to more testing aside, this was all too close to the tight grip of shame that never quite let go of Bruce's heart. Maybe he hadn't been the perpetrator, but he'd been a participant nonetheless. He hadn't even begun to think about it, to come to terms with it. That was another reason he'd so willingly given into this quest. It distracted him from things he couldn't stand to acknowledge, let alone accept. There was a lot of guilt pent up in that, guilt he wasn't strong enough to face. When his science had failed before, he'd been the one destroyed by it. This time he'd failed, and Rogers had died because of it. Maybe he was okay now, but just because it had turned out alright didn't negate what had happened.

No, asking Steve for more blood was strictly out of the question.

So this was going to be it. The last of his failed attempts to make Extremis do more than just burn. Bruce took off his glasses and set them to the workbench tiredly and rubbed his eyes. It was so damn hard to let things go. He'd never been able to do it. Not when he'd been a kid or a student. Not when he'd worked for Ross. Even now, even as his heart told his head that asking anything of Steve was completely immoral, his head was trying to find ways to justify it to his heart. It was just science. Science was blind and fair and pure. Maybe Steve would see that. Maybe he would understand that _good _could come of this. If he could make plants that survived indefinitely and produced hardier and healthier fruit at accelerated rates and in massive quantities… that was a wonderful thing. Maybe he could convince Steve to help him.

Maybe if Steve helped him, he could fix everything that he had done to himself.

"Doctor Banner?"

Bruce jerked forward in his chair and hastily cleared his laptop screen of his recent data and simulations. Awkward shock coursed over him like he'd been caught red-handed doing something he shouldn't be doing (because he was frankly). His skin felt tingly and uncomfortable and a cold sweat immediately broke out on his lower back. It was as if fate or God or whatever powers that were had read his mind and decided to show him what a stupid moron he was by shoving the opportunity to get what he wanted right before his nose and letting him flounder. So pathetic. "Hi, Steve," he said, clearing his throat a little because it felt like something was wedged in it. He tried to seem busy, pulling up his word processor and typing mindlessly on an abstract he was working on for another paper on neutron decay. "What's up?"

Bruce felt more than saw Steve tentatively come closer because he refused to look up. It was really childish, but he sort of felt like if he just didn't make eye contact, Rogers would leave. "I really need to talk to you."

"Now's not a good time actually. I'm kinda in the middle of something." God, he could be an ass when it suited him.

Steve was silent as he hesitated. For a brief second, Bruce hoped he'd thwarted what was surely going to be some sort of awkward conversation about what had happened. But he hadn't. "Doctor Banner, please."

There was something strained in the faint words. Bruce glanced up over the top of his laptop and looked at Steve. And all his selfish nervousness and reluctance faded to alarm. "Whoa. Hey. Are you alright?"

The man before him seemed nothing like a super soldier, nothing like a SHIELD agent. Nothing like Captain America. He was freshly showered, but his usually neatly combed hair was askew and his clothes were disheveled, like he'd just thrown them on without caring at all about it. He was so pale and his eyes were dark with exhaustion. He was grimacing, shaking. It was hardly perceptible, this minor tremor in his tall, muscular frame, but Bruce saw it clear as day. "Bruce, I…" Steve looked away. Bruce stood from his chair, worry creasing his brow. "I – I need your help."

Any hesitation faded from Bruce's mind as he rounded the workbench and approached the taller man. Something about Steve seemed raw and uncontrolled. Something was wrong. "Yeah. Yeah, sure. Come on and sit down."

Steve remained stiff as though he was having second thoughts about what he was doing. Bruce watched him for a moment but tried not to stare. Finally Steve relented, and he sagged and walked around the lab bench to sit in another chair. He was shivering more noticeably now, scrubbing his hands down his face. Even though laying a comforting hand on his shoulder seemed a good, friendly thing to do, Bruce didn't feel sure enough to touch him. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," Steve admitted. He dropped his hands from in front of his face and rubbed them methodically up and down his jeans before clasping his knees. He was jittery. Steve was always so calm, so still, so collected. Bruce didn't know what was going on, but whatever it was, it was serious. "I just…" His face crumpled. "I think… I think there's something wrong with me."

"What do you mean?"

Steve swallowed thickly. "I can't sleep." Bruce said nothing, waiting patiently for him to continue. "I try, but I'm having these dreams…"

He wasn't that kind of a doctor. He wasn't someone who could listen to other people's problems (especially problems borne from _this_ situation), and he was about to stop Steve right there and suggest he see a psychiatrist. And experiencing nightmares after what they'd gone through was normal. He'd had them, too. But he didn't send Steve away because whatever was bothering the younger man went well beyond _normal_. He could see that right away. Steve was _terrified_. "What sort of dreams?"

"Violent." Steve closed his eyes and winced, as if the mere mention of what he was enduring was too much. He let out a slow, shaking breath. "Horrifying. They're so real, like memories almost, but they're not. They're not real." He shook his head, his shoulders slumped and his pallor striking. "I keep having to remind myself of that."

He didn't say anything further until Bruce prompted him. "How long has this been going on?"

Steve squinted like he couldn't think or couldn't remember. "A week maybe? I don't know."

Bruce chewed the inside of his lip, his mind racing as he tried to recall the last time he'd seen Steve. Had he looked this distressed? Suddenly he felt completely disconnected, embarrassingly so. Apparently Captain America had been deteriorating right in front of his eyes, and he hadn't noticed. Tony probably hadn't noticed. Pepper had been gone. What the hell sort of friends were they? Steve did a damn good job of hiding things, but he should have realized that from the exchange in the SHIELD infirmary after they'd been rescued from Dan and done what he could to stop it. Furthermore, if Steve was the type of person who kept his problems to himself, the fact that he was here lent even more credence to this being a serious matter_. _"Anything else bothering you?"

Steve hesitated again. "I've been having these headaches."

That was more alarming. "Since the incident?"

"A little after."

The serum should have prevented him from experiencing everyday human discomforts, headaches included. He should have told someone right away. "How bad are they?"

"They weren't at first," Steve answered softly, "but now…" He dropped his chin and stared at his hands, his hands that were clenched so tightly in his jeans that his knuckles were white. Bruce realized why he had looked away when he saw a droplet of liquid splash against his thigh. Steve shuddered, shaking his head as he wiped at his eyes. "I can't stand it anymore. I don't like to complain, but I can't think sometimes it's so painful. And I tried to convince myself that this was okay, but… I know something's wrong with me."

Concern continued to rise up sharply in Bruce's chest until his heart was pumping faster and harder and he had to remind himself to stay calm. His worry about touching the other man dissipated, and he laid a gentle hand on Steve's shoulder. Seeing Captain America cry, even if it was only a few wayward tears that were quickly wiped away, wasn't something he'd ever even remotely imagined witnessing. Offering up comfort wasn't a strong suit of his, particularly since the birth of the Hulk, but letting this go on obviously wasn't an option. The man before him looked devastated, _tortured_, and desperately afraid. Whatever hell through which he'd been silently suffering was destroying him, and he needed help. "Okay, Steve. It's okay. Take it easy. Nightmares and migraines don't necessarily mean something's wrong with you, alright? Let's not leap to conclusions." His mind was racing with fleeting thoughts and possibilities as he reached for one of the many tablet computers strewn about the lab. He pulled up Steve's medical information with a few taps to the touch screen. Maybe the headaches could have been caused by the Gamma radiation, but the previous CT scans had come back tumor free and cancer was improbable with the protective effects of the serum. And maybe–

"What are you doing?" Teary blue eyes fearfully regarded him.

"Taking notes."

"No. No notes. Please, Bruce."

"It's important to keep a log of things. If on the off chance there is a problem, we should document what you're–"

"I said no!" The tablet suddenly flew from his hands as though it had been physically wrenched away. One second he'd felt smooth glass and plastic in his fingers, and the next he was grasping air. The tablet was thrown across the room onto another workbench with a loud clatter. It slid across the surface and fell to the opposite side. The sound of it shattering was loud and it echoed through the lab.

Bruce could hardly believe it. Steve was breathing heavily. He lowered his right hand, his eyes narrowed. Bruce noticed that they were bright as though Steve was running a fever, and sweat was shining on his temples. "Uh…" he stammered, backpedaling slightly. He glanced in utter horror between workbench feet away from them and Steve's white face. "How… What…"

"Something's _wrong_ with me," Steve insisted.

Bruce stared. He couldn't make himself accept what had just happened. The silence was heavy and thick with tension, filled with only the hum of the Tower and his own thundering heart. He forced himself to breathe. He was lost and reeling and wondering what in the world was going on. This defied every law of physics and nature he knew and trusted. "How, um… When did this start?"

Steve dropped his hand into his lap. "Today. And it's getting worse."

"How did you…"

"I don't know."

"Can you try to do it again?" Bruce took another tablet from one of the other workbenches and set it on the table beside his laptop. "Move it to me."

He watched in worry as Steve reluctantly did as he requested. The soldier looked to the table, focusing on the tablet where it idly rested. Those bright blue eyes narrowed again. A second dragged by. Then a few more. Nothing happened. Steve was shaking now, well and truly, his face taut with effort and concentration and pain. The pain was rapidly outpacing the other things. He flung out his right hand, as though physical motion could move the tablet across the room, but it didn't. Then he gasped and sagged in the chair and choked on his next few ragged breaths. He buried his face in his hands and wavered like he was about to pass out. "I can't! I can't!"

Bruce quickly stepped closer. "Okay. It's okay. Easy."

"God, it hurts," Steve moaned. He roughly wiped his eyes again and drove his fingers into the mess of his damp hair, fighting to catch his breath.

"Easy," Bruce shushed. Despite how much this normally made him uncomfortable, he crouched in front of Steve, laying his hands on the other man's knees. "Where does your head hurt? Can you show me? Can you describe it? Give me your hand."

Steve complied, and Bruce quickly counted his pulse. It was racing, dangerously so. This wasn't right. The serum should have prevented this sort of stress reaction. At least, he believed it should have. The serum had brought Steve to the very pinnacle of human perfection, taking him far beyond the normal physiological reactions to injury so that they were greatly diminished in intensity or short lived. But that was what they knew in regards to physical injury_._ This wasn't physical. His mind was racing so fast that he didn't notice for a second that Steve hadn't answered him. He looked up and found the man breathing through what seemed to be agony. "Steve? Tell me about the pain. Where is it?"

"All over," Steve managed through gritted teeth. "Like… somebody's drivin' spikes in my brain. I just want it to stop."

"Did it get worse when you tried to move the pad?" Steve nodded. _Obviously the pain's related to the telekinesis. And whatever else is wrong with him. Obviously. And obviously he can't consciously control it._ "Look in my eyes." Steve did for the first time since right after all of this had happened. His pupils were hugely dilated. Something about them didn't look right, but Bruce couldn't put his finger on it. Like they were flooded with emotion and memory. He didn't know how else to describe it. "Follow my finger." Steve did, but it was sluggish, once again as if he couldn't concentrate. "What else? Tell me everything, even if you don't think it's relevant."

Steve didn't say anything as Bruce stood. He laid his hand across Rogers' forehead. Steve flinched away from his touch; they both noticed it immediately, and Bruce froze and Steve tried to force himself to relax. Bruce noted he was warm, but not seriously so. _No fever._ He slid his hands down the side of Steve's face to the lymph nodes in his neck and palpated them. They were fine. _No infection, though with the serum that's not likely anyway. But then none of this is likely. I should run the blood panels anyway._ Then he experimentally touched Steve's head, weaving his fingers through the other man's hair to examine his skull. _No obvious signs of trauma or swelling._ God, he wished there was. And drugs (although with Steve's personality that was unlikely to begin with) were out of the question, given the serum's resistance to their effects. _Any _of these explanations was infinitely better than what he feared was the case. _What did Dan say? The experiment would augment cerebral capacity. Increase synaptic efficiency. Maximize neurologic output. Rewire the brain._

_Expand his mind._

_Oh, God._ He shook himself from his frantic thoughts. "Come on, Steve. Talk to me. This is important. What else?"

"I've been remembering things I…" Steve faltered. He grimaced again, but he seemed more in control of himself, like the pain had receded to something he could tolerate. "I haven't thought about some of it for years, and it's like it just happened. I usually remember things with a lot of clarity, but this is – it's like I'm _there_ again. I'm dreaming about it, thinking about it… Even when I'm awake. I feel like someone's in my head and digging through it."

There was something raw and violated in his voice. Bruce didn't want to get personal, but there was no way around it. "Good memories or bad ones?"

Steve stared at him as if trying to gauge whether or not he was trustworthy. "There are good ones," he said, "but it's mostly bad."

"Any hallucinations?"

Steve looked ashamed of himself. "I don't know," he quietly admitted. "Everything's a blur. When I went out with Pepper today, it got better for a while. I felt fine. But it's been worse since… Since I…" He didn't finish. His eyes focused suddenly and he looked up at Bruce. "He did something to me."

Bruce couldn't argue. He couldn't lie. But he could try to fix it. He _needed _to fix it. "We have to go where I can look you over more thoroughly," he gently declared. "Back to SHIELD."

Steve's eyes widened and the color drained further from his already pale cheeks. Whatever calm he'd found was dashed. "No. I can't."

"You need a CT scan. MRIs. Blood work. A full physical. Things I can't do for you here."

"I don't want to," Steve said harshly. He was becoming agitated, and he was up and out of the chair like he needed to run and escape before Bruce could stop him. Bruce felt his own fear rise at seeing the terrified, angry expression claiming Steve's face. "I can't. I don't want anyone doing anything to me."

Sickening realization rushed over Bruce, twisting his stomach. He swallowed his nausea and his mounting frustration. For how _okay _Steve had acted about what had happened to him, Bruce knew right then and there that it had all been a lie. "Steve, nobody is going to hurt you. And nobody is going to force you to do anything. But you need help." Steve looked like a deer caught in headlights. Bruce raised his hands harmlessly. "If you don't want me to run the tests, that's fine." It wasn't fine, but he could deal with the hurt and the guilt later. "Doctor Wright can do it. But I need you to trust me when I tell you that it needs to be done. You obviously trusted me enough to come to me, right?"

Steve didn't look convinced. He was trembling and shaking his head. "I don't trust you," he said.

"Steve–"

Steve stepped closer and suddenly that frightened, pained look was gone from his face and his eyes were dark and teeming with rage. "I don't trust you," he seethed. Something shattered behind Bruce. More things burst, glasses and vials, and the screen of his laptop broke. The huge windows that spanned from the floor to the ceiling all around the lab cracked loudly. Terror reared inside Bruce, and with that the beast stirred. Steve moved closer, undaunted despite who he was threatening. That look in his eyes grew sharper, more dangerous. "Why should I? You did this to me."

Bruce fought to keep himself calm, to stand still and not react. The Hulk pushed up against him again, a low, rumbling growl echoing across his mind that was eager to break loose, but he ignored it. That tantalizing desire to _let go_ teased through his thoughts, but he ignored it. The enormity of how _bad _this was hit him hard and fast. "Easy, Steve," he said, forcing his tone to be gentle and soft. "Take it easy. You know that's not true." He tried to be sure, to force some measure of bravado to strengthen his voice because hearing that accusation from Steve cut straight to his heart. "Just stay calm. Whatever you're feeling is overpowering you. Your emotions are getting the better of you. It's not your fault, but you need to fight it. You need to stay calm. It's alright. Easy."

The scariest part of it was that Steve _did_ seem calm, murderously so, even though his eyes burned bright with fury. What sort of nightmare did he see when he looked at Bruce? Nothing more than the man who'd strapped him to a table and experimented on him and done _this _to him? Bruce couldn't think about that now. The air veritably cracked with power. The windows creaked. The lights dimmed. What the hell was causing him to do this? How was it possible? Whatever it was, it was extremely dangerous. _Steve was extremely dangerous._ Bruce needed to get Rogers to calm down somehow…

He sucked in a deep breath and opened his hands to Steve again, trying to show he wasn't a threat and praying that was enough compared to whatever monster Steve perceived him to be. "You know I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to make the pain better, alright? Think, okay? Just take a deep breath and think. Don't let your emotions control you."

Ironic, coming from him. Steve obviously thought so as well because he barked out a rough laugh that turned into an equally rough sob and backed away. He turned, nearly stumbling on his feet. Bruce barely kept his own legs steady beneath him his relief was so strong. "God help me," Steve whispered, his shoulders shaking. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

Bruce rushed forward, chancing that a comforting hug would be okay. He wrapped his arms around the taller man, guiding him back to the chair and helping him sit. Steve was really shaking now, and his face was twisted with suffering. He looked dizzy, and Bruce kept a solid hand on his shoulder while reaching for an unopened bottle of water on the lab bench. "Here. Just sip this and breathe. We're going to get you through this."

The door to the lab slid open. Bruce jolted in alarm, ripping around to see Tony walk inside the room. He looked pale and troubled as well. Steve saw him too and immediately stiffened under Bruce's hands. Muscles as hard as rock twisted and flexed beneath his fingers. "Stay calm," Bruce softly reminded. "It's just Tony."

Tony tentatively came closer. He shared a questioning, worried glance with Bruce. His gaze strayed to the dripping mess spreading across the counters and floors and the broken glass all over. He didn't seem surprised. Bruce silently prayed Tony would keep his sarcasm to himself; usually it rubbed Steve the wrong way, and this situation was about as far from usual as they could get. Bruce managed half a smile, keeping the tension from his face and voice and body, as he patted Steve's shoulder tenderly. "Cap seems to have… um, gained some new talents."

Steve gave another hoarse laugh at that. The water bottle nearly ruptured as he subconsciously squeezed it and twisted it in his hands. Tony slowly approached, keeping his eyes squarely on Rogers. Bruce realized immediately that the other man already knew that something was wrong with Steve, and that led him to wonder what had gone on that day that had started all of this. "Yeah, noticed," Tony commented. "Like pulling a gun ten feet through the air toward your hand with your mind." Steve winced, and Bruce closed his eyes wearily for a second. _Oh, hell… What happened?_ There was no time to ask. He shook his head at Stark, praying his friend heeded him. This was all upsetting, and upsetting Steve was the last thing they needed. But Tony went on. There wasn't a hint of accusation or heat in his tone, though. "Or blowing out the Tower's power system. Or making my lab look like a tornado hit it."

"I'm sorry," Steve said.

"I don't care about any of that," Tony said firmly. There wasn't a hint of mirth in his brown eyes, and his lips were tight with a concerned frown. He was serious in a way that was unusual for him. "We need to get you some place safe."

Steve stiffened again. "Safe for me?" he asked tersely. "Or safe _from_ me?"

Tony folded his arms over his chest and leaned his hip into one of the lab benches. Bruce felt the situation deteriorating again, so he kept his hand on Steve's shoulder like the contact could anchor him. "You're the one who almost choked me a little while ago," Tony said. Again the words were without spite, but even as inflectionless as they were they were still provocative.

Shock coursed over Bruce. He looked down at the man beside him, really afraid at how quickly this could spiral from their control. Steve and Tony didn't get along, but he knew there was no force in the universe that could make Captain America raise his hand in anger against an innocent man, let alone against a teammate. Steve's moods were shifting so quickly, though, that Bruce didn't know what to expect. If he'd attacked Tony before, he'd likely do it again.

But he didn't. He just lowered his head into his hands again and drove his fingers back into his hair. It was like being directly confronted about what had happened had finally pushed him into seeing reason. Into surrender. "I didn't mean to. I swear. I can't control it," he admitted. His voice cracked with despair. "I'm trying, but I can't."

"It's alright. It's not your fault."

"What's wrong with me?"

"We don't know, Steve," Bruce said. "But Tony's right. We need to get you some place safe, some place where we can figure out how to help you."

Steve sighed, his breath quivering as though he was trying his hardest not to cry. "Okay," he whispered.

That was enough for Bruce. "Just sit tight with Tony for a second, okay? I'm going to get something to help." Steve looked up at him, clearly afraid, so Bruce squeezed his shoulder and smiled as best he could again before turning and walking from the lab. Tony was calling after him, confused and maybe afraid as well, but he ignored it, trying to seem calm and nonchalant and composed. Once the doors closed behind him, he ran as fast as he could. He thundered down the hall toward the elevator and charged inside. "JARVIS? Take me to my floor. Hurry!" The lift immediately began to move. Bruce couldn't be sure, but it felt faster than normal. "What's Rogers doing?"

"Captain Rogers has not moved, Doctor Banner," the AI responded. "He is calm at the moment."

"You let me know the minute it seems like he's getting agitated."

"Perhaps leaving him with Mr. Stark was not wise," JARVIS said. Bruce knew that, of course. The doors opened on his floor and he sprinted down the nicely decorated hall toward his suite. JARVIS opened the door for him, and he barreled inside.

"No choice," Bruce gasped as he dug inside his dresser. He finally pulled the black, plastic case out from underneath his underwear and set it atop his dresser. He'd been carting this around for a couple of years. He'd developed the dendrotoxin for himself, hoping it would prove useful in stopping the Hulk if he could ever catch himself mid-transformation. He rarely could, and when he did it didn't help at all. But hopefully it would be enough to sedate Steve, at least for a short while. There wasn't much, just two injections, and Bruce frankly had no idea how quickly Steve's body would metabolize it. But it was all they had. He snatched the case up and sprinted to the elevator.

As he ran back to his lab, a thousand horrifying thoughts raced through his head. "JARVIS, how's it going?"

"Well enough," the AI responded.

_Thank God._ He burst through the door and tried to catch his breath. Both Steve and Tony immediately looked to him. Rogers was still sitting in the chair and Stark was still leaning against the workbench. Neither of them looked to have even twitched. They stared at him like he was crazy. Maybe he was.

How the hell were they going to get Steve to allow them to inject him with this?

He obviously wasn't entirely rational, and whatever newfound powers he had were uncontrollable and unpredictable. What they really needed was time to study this, and Steve didn't seem interested in cooperating. And Tony was right: they had to get him some place safe. They needed to contain this before it got out of control. Some part of his brain shriveled at that logic, at how cold and uncaring it was, but it was true. He could only hope he could convince Steve to see it that way. And he didn't want to pray for another man's suffering, but he sincerely hoped the pain was severe enough that Steve would want to sleep.

Steve's frightened face immediately doused his hopes. He glanced at the case in Bruce's hand. "What is that?" Bruce looked to Tony. He probably shouldn't have. That set Steve even more on edge, and he was up and out of the chair again. This was very bad. "What? What are you gonna do to me?"

"Just stay calm, okay?" Bruce said softly, lifting his hand again and trying to follow his own advice. "I have some medicine with me that will take away the pain so you can sleep. And it'll be a deep sleep. No nightmares."

Steve was shaking again. In terror. Bruce's heart ached at the sight of it. "I don't want to sleep," he returned, warily darting his gaze between Tony and Bruce. "I'm just – I'm gonna go. I shouldn't have bothered you. I'm fine. I'll work it out."

Tony was incredulous, and Bruce could see the urge to say something sharp dancing in his eyes. "Work it out? This isn't something you can ignore."

"Steve, listen. You said before you just want the pain to end. Well, this will definitely take it away for a while." Steve was panicked. He wasn't thinking clearly enough for any of that to register. All he saw was another man approaching him with a drug. All he saw was another man trying to hurt him. Whatever Dan's procedure had done to him was greatly amplifying his feelings of fear and anger and pain.

And his feelings of fear and anger and pain were triggering the telekinesis.

Maybe it would be a better idea to back off.

Bruce stopped moving. He set the case to the floor. "Alright," he said softly, ridding his own voice of anything except compassion. "We won't do it. But can you take a seat? Let me look you over again. Will you let me take some readings?" With what, Bruce didn't know. He wasn't lying when he'd told Steve he didn't have the equipment to do the necessary tests on hand. But any reason to calm Rogers down and get him to sit again was a good one, even if it was nonsense.

Steve was like a cornered animal. Both Tony and Bruce were keeping their distance, but he regarded each of them like a threat. He didn't sit. If he wouldn't let them near, there wasn't much they could do. Newfound powers aside, he still was much stronger and faster than both of them combined. They couldn't force him, not without Tony's suit and without the Hulk. _Please let this not come to that…_

Control was slipping away from their grasping fingers, both Steve's control over his emotions and Tony and Bruce's control over the situation. Bruce could hardly breathe. "Cap," Tony said, moving closer. "Come on. We're not going to hurt you. Whatever's going on in your head that's got you all messed up isn't real."

Steve stepped back further. He hit one of the benches with his hip hard enough to shake it before darting around the edge. "Stay away from me," he ordered.

"Why?" Tony asked in exasperation. "We just want to give you something to help you relax. Take the edge off of it. Bruce is right; if you're in pain, something's wrong." Tony rolled his eyes a little. "Well, more than the obvious. Come on. Don't make us–"

"Don't make you what?" Steve snarled. "Force me? Hold me down?"

Tony sighed slowly, sharing a look with Bruce. He shrugged a little. "Yes. We will if we have to. But I don't want to. I _really _don't want to. So let's just not do it. Just cooperate. It'll be easier on everyone."

"Easier?" Steve's expression opened in alarm, in realization of how far this could go, in realization of what Tony was threatening. A second later it tightened in rage. "You stay the hell away!" he shouted.

"Calm down," Bruce pleaded. "Nobody is forcing anyone to do–"

"No! I'm not going to let you drug me!"

"Steve–"

And that was it. He was going to run.

"Now, J!" The rear wall of the lab burst open and flashes of red and gold streaked into the room. Tony stood still as Iron Man encased him, the pieces of the armor wrapping around his body almost faster than Bruce could see. Iron Man's white eyes were aglow after the metal mask slid down over Tony's face. "Now come on. Let's not do this."

But it was already done. Tony hardly had the words out of his mouth before Steve narrowed his eyes and swung his arm out. Iron Man was flung from his feet as though battered by an invisible force and thrown across the room. Bruce ducked as Tony flew past him in a blur and smashed through the wall on the other side of the room. Steve groaned in pain, closing his fist and yanking his hand down and bringing the ceiling crashing to the floor on top of Tony. The roar of shattering sheet rock and bending metal and breaking glass resounded through the lab. Steve glanced at Bruce, and his expression was unreadable. Then he turned and bolted.

The enormity of what had just happened left Bruce reeling. He heard Tony shifting in the wreckage, and Iron Man rose from the debris, drywall dust covering the gleaming surface of his suit. "Damn it," he said. "JARVIS, lock down the Tower!"

"I am quite certain locks will not prevent Captain Rogers from escaping," JARVIS reminded.

Tony glared at Bruce. "What the hell? Maybe bringing out drugs wasn't a good idea?"

Bruce bristled, his own patience all but worn away. "Like bringing out your suit was?"

Iron Man stalked after Rogers. When he realized he was alone, he turned his glower back to Bruce. "You planning on helping? Come on!"

"I'm not sure I should let out the Other Guy," Bruce returned hotly, although if things kept escalating like this it might become unavoidable. The thought of it was distressing. He quickly picked the case up from the floor and stumbled to a bench. He set it down and opened the lid. The two capped syringes were still inside, thankfully undamaged.

"We need him!" Tony insisted. "This is beyond salvaging. And Rogers and I are pretty evenly matched when he's not all hyped up on super brain powers. I can't take him alone." It took a lot for Stark to ever admit he wasn't enough to handle a situation. "Can that stuff bring him down?"

"I don't know," Bruce confessed. He was trying hard to keep his own emotions in check as he pulled the syringes from the case. He crossed the room and handed them to Stark. "I think it should, but–"

"Feel bad about it later," Iron Man snapped. He took the needles from Bruce. "Stop him now before he hurts himself or someone else."

"Tony, we can't–"

"Sir, Captain Rogers is attempting to head down the Tower. He is in the west stairwell. If he gets out–"

"I know!" Those glowing eyes stared at Bruce, unwavering. "We need the Hulk."

Bruce hesitated a moment more. This was not what he wanted. This was _never_ what he wanted. It had been more than a year since he'd released the monster from its cage, and this was twice in two weeks. And if the Hulk injured Steve, even accidentally, he'd never be able to forgive himself. But Tony was right. He closed his eyes and let go.

* * *

Bruce never had much control. The first time there had been none. Since then, he'd found ways to keep himself _intact_ (if that was the term for it – honestly, it was hard to describe) when his body was no longer his own. He'd found ways to feel what was happening, to know beyond the wall of rage that kept him from himself and burned and blurred his world. Since then, he'd learned that if he stayed just a little angry all the time he could hang onto himself. Control was too definitely strong a word for it. Maybe consciousness was, too. But he was _there_, not blown into oblivion, not overwhelmed and held captive in a prison without sight and sound and touch until the Hulk was calm again. Now it was more of an inversion, a role reversal. He was the thorn in the Hulk's mind and not the other way around. And this thorn had a singular message, and he said it over and over and over again until it sunk in.

_Don't hurt him._

The monster breathed heavily against the whisper, muscles bulging and heart thundering and frustration driving him. But that thought was strong. _Don't hurt him. Don't. Don't hurt him._

The Hulk grunted, unappreciative of Bruce's command, but he would heed it. Bruce forced memories to the surface, brought them up through the pulsing storm of anger. Memories of Captain America, clad in red and white and blue with his shield shining. They'd fought together, the Hulk and this man. It had been some time ago, but the Hulk needed to remember that this man was his comrade. This man was his captain._ You know him. Steve. A friend._

A calm thought. A simple thought. Something the Hulk could understand and obey. _Don't hurt him._

And the Hulk listened.

The monster was tearing through the 31st floor of Stark Tower, racing to reach the west stairwell. He exploded into the concrete chamber and jumped down, smashing and destroying as he went, the massive bulk of his body and strength causing the steps to crumple. He grasped the wall, fingers gouging sturdy cement like it was nothing, sliding down fast until he spotted the man. _Steve. Don't hurt him._ The Hulk growled in an irate response to his reminder, slowing his descent. _Steve. Grab him. Don't hurt him._ Steve's eyes widened. He flung himself to the side to avoid the Hulk as he landed on one of the platforms outside a lower floor. His face was bathed in sweat. The Hulk growled again, outside and in, and reached his massive hand towards Steve.

Steve backpedaled. _Easy. Easy. _The Hulk fought to restrain himself, to ignore that driving desire to smash and batter and pulverize and vent his rage. When Steve knocked his hand aside, however, the urge to hit back became unrestrai nable. He moved fast, driving his other fist toward Steve, but the soldier caught his arm and pushed with so much power that the Hulk staggered from surprise alone. Tucked in corner of the Hulk's mind, the small part of Bruce that was still aware understood that it wasn't just serum-enhanced strength Steve was leveraging against him. Steve was controlling kinetic energy, slowing the strike and dissipating the force until the blow was stoppable. That wisp of understanding was nearly dashed by the Hulk's irritation as his quarry slipped away and leapt a good fifteen feet back up the mangled stairs to the floor above them.

The Hulk wasn't going to let him escape. He chased him upward, driving him back to the higher floors. Steve sent wreckage down, ripping the stairs out of the wall and raining twisted metal and chunks of cement. The Hulk dodged and batted it aside and weathered the hits like they were nothing, following quickly and not allowing Rogers to gain ground on him. At the top of the stairs, Steve turned and with a wild sweep of his arm pulled the rest of the stairs loose. The Hulk wasn't deterred even as the steps disappeared under his feet. He slammed down his legs and clenched his thighs and jumped and landed.

In front of him, Steve staggered, nearly falling to his knees as he pushed open the stairwell doors and stumbled out. Iron Man was waiting for him, but the soldier surged past. Tony tried to grab him. Steve threw him without ever touching him and held him against the far wall of the hallway. He paused to do that, to keep Iron Man pinned, the armor bending and buckling beneath the incredible force keeping him to the wall. The Hulk roared and charged, the floor shaking under the stampeding beast, reaching for Rogers. Steve dropped Tony and whirled, gasping in pain and propelling that awesome power he'd used against Iron Man at the Hulk. The Hulk wasn't prepared and the impact threw him back into the opposite wall, breaking through to the room behind. Frustration burned through the monster, growing wilder and wilder and hotter by the second, as he ran back to the hallway.

Iron Man tackled Steve. They struggled in a blur of kicks and punches and twisting bodies, smashing into walls and skidding across the polished floor, before Tony somehow managed to knock him down. He threw himself on top of the sprawled soldier. "Stop!" yelled Stark. He pinned one of Steve's wrists, straddling him with all his strength, fumbling for the syringes tucked in his suit.

Steve's other hand was locked around Iron Man's throat and squeezing. Metal bent. His eyes widened in horror at the sight of the needle for which Tony was fumbling. "No! Don't touch me! _Don't touch me! Bucky!"_ He threw his head back in abject horror. _"Help me!"_

"Sir, I believe Captain Rogers is having a flashback or some sort of waking nightmare."

"You think? Hold still, damn it!"

"Restraining him like this will only–"

"Steve, listen to me! You need to stop! We're trying to help you!"

"Get off of me!" Steve screamed. _"Get off!" _A wave of energy seemed to radiate out from him, violent and powerful, slamming into everything around him. Electricity exploded, surging from the power conduits in the walls. Glass shattered. Drywall and plaster cracked and snapped. Windows burst and walls broke. The whole of the hallway vibrated and shook as its structure was compromised. Debris fell everywhere as the top of the Tower trembled. Wreckage tumbled past the windows outside. Iron Man was tossed up into the ceiling by a kick fueled with telekinetic power, and he went straight through into the floor above. The Hulk reached his huge paw toward the soldier who lay gasping, but Steve's wild eyes shot toward him, glowing with pain and mounting madness. "Don't come any closer!" he shouted. The Hulk didn't listen. He snapped and roared. There was some effort to control his strength, but it was weathering as the seconds wore on and his patience wore with them. He tried to stomp on the other man, but Steve was too fast. He scrambled to his knees, clambering through the debris, and one short breath had the Hulk locked in place by a force that pushed back against him as hard as he was driving against it. It was as if there were chains on his arms and legs and looped around his chest, pulling him toward the other end of the hall. Pulling and yanking and squeezing. He fought but he couldn't break free until it was too late. Steve was running. Steve was gone.

The Hulk screamed in annoyance. Bruce struggled to hold fast to whatever thoughts he could even as the wind and thunder of the storm of the Hulk's growing rage tore them away. _Don't hurt Steve. Stop him._ Iron Man fell through the crumbling remains of the ceiling. "Shit," he gasped, struggling to his feet. "JARVIS?"

"I do not think he realizes where he is. He is heading upward."

Upward. And the only thing above them was the penthouse. Even under the smothering hold of the monster, Bruce realized what that meant.

"Oh, God," Tony said. He fired the repulsors in Iron Man's boots and propelled himself back through the hole in the ceiling to the top floor. Then he flung his hands forward and the armor flew off his body and through the building. "Go!" he cried to the Hulk, still clenching the two needles. "Go to Pepper!"

It was Bruce's connection to Tony that convinced the Hulk to move. The beast was jumping, tearing that hole even wider, and launching himself to the floor above. He flew, running through walls and across rooms in a direct path to the penthouse. The top of the Tower shook with the strain of the Hulk rampaging across it. That rage was mounting, growing and growing and spreading through the thickness of muscles. It was coming in an avalanche now, a series of landslides, one after another after another. They tumbled down through his mind and crushed anything in their path. Bruce held fast. He knew he could. _Save Pepper. Don't hurt Steve. Don't hurt either of them._

The Hulk broke through the outer wall of the penthouse with a spray of drywall, furniture flung aside by the impact. There was a shrill scream. "Steve! Steve, what's the matter with you?" Expensive tile cracked and broke under his feet as he drove his shoulder through another wall and exploded into the bedroom.

Iron Man stood against the wall. Not Iron Man. The face plate was lifted, and Pepper's pale countenance appeared beneath. Her eyes were wide with terror and confusion. She glanced from Steve, who stood in the middle of the room, to the Hulk, who was growling and lumbering closer. Steve was panting, shaking, darting his eyes around fearfully but not seeing anything. And the Hulk was prepared to pounce. A tense eternity passed.

_"Pepper!"_ Stark cried from down the hall.

That was enough to shatter the stillness. Steve reached his hand out toward the Hulk, pushing him back again, but the soldier was tiring and the force behind the blow wasn't nearly the same magnitude as before. The Hulk yelled his frustration at being knocked back into the wall, expensive artwork clattering to the floor and smashing. Steve gritted his teeth, fighting to hold him there. Pepper dropped Iron Man's mask and raised the suit's right palm repulsor. Blue light glowed threateningly. "Steve!" Her voice shook from behind Iron Man's helmet. "Stop it! Let him go!"

Tony ran through the bedroom doors. "Pepper, don't!"

Steve flashed furious eyes at Stark, throwing him back down the hall with a sweep of his other arm. "Oh my God!" Pepper cried, and the palm repulsor fired.

The shot hit Steve's right shoulder. He went down with a cry and turned to Pepper. The pain and fear were suddenly gone from his gaze. Now there was only the anger. It was bright and brilliant, teeming with unhinged violence, burning with rage that was gleefully unrestrained. It was terrifying.

His lips twisted in a small smile. And then he dismantled the suit.

Pepper screamed as the armor was ripped away. The gloves and vambraces fell, and the boots hissed as they unwillingly released her legs. The chest plate came loose, the arc reactor winking out. Piece by piece Iron Man was taken, leaving Pepper cowering defenselessly against the wall. The suit reassembled in a blink in front of her, levitating, looming over her shaking form. It was staring that vicious, malevolent stare. Its palm repulsor was raised and pointed at her. It was powering up, glowing and heated with deadly energy.

"No!" Tony cried as he ran back inside the room. _"_No! Don't, Steve! It's Pepper! You're going to hurt Pepper!"

Steve stopped. In a blink, it was all gone. The rage. The insanity. His eyes widened, filling with fear and pain again, filling with tears. Iron Man fell apart before their eyes, the armor clanking to the bedroom floor all at once. "Oh, God…" he whispered. He staggered and collapsed to his knees. The room seemed to groan, things shaking and rattling and breaking, as he buried his face in his hands and came apart.

The force holding the Hulk to the wall disappeared. The beast devoured the distance to Steve in two huge strides and drove him to the floor. The soldier didn't struggle, falling beneath the Hulk's weight. His head smacked into the carpeted floor. He lay limply as the Hulk reached down a huge hand and pressed it into Steve's throat. All the power had fled the form beneath him. One push and he could break this man's neck. The urge to crush him was nearly overwhelming. _No! Don't hurt him!_

The Hulk was angry, but he held back.

Tony grabbed Pepper's shaking form. "Are you alright? Are you?" he demanded hoarsely. He was panicked, his eyes wide and shaken with how close Steve had come to killing her. She couldn't manage any words, her face streaked with tears, but she nodded. He didn't spend another second at her side, instead running to the middle of the room where the Hulk had Steve trapped. He yanked one of the syringes from the pocket of his pants, skidding to his knees.

Tears bled from Steve's eyes. He was tormented. Agonized. Grimacing in excruciating pain. Completely devastated. But he looked at Tony and _saw_ him. "Make it stop," he begged. "Tony, please help me. _Please_… I–"

Tony faltered for a second before uncapping the needle. "We're gonna fix this," he breathlessly swore. He grabbed Steve's other wrist tightly, mindful of the bleeding burn on Rogers' shoulder as he held his arm still. Steve could have broken free easily, but he didn't, and Stark jabbed the needle into his bicep.

The soldier didn't fight, breathing in hitched, ragged pants. "I'm so sorry." His eyes were dark blue and wet and _broken_. "I couldn't… I didn't…"

"I know," Tony soothed quietly. He pulled the needle out and tossed it aside. But he didn't release his wrist. He laid his free hand on Steve's forehead in an uncharacteristic show of comfort and smoothed back the mess of his hair. "Just sleep." Steve's eyes slipped shut and his breathing evened out. The sedative took him down.

The silence that followed was rife with pain and fear and slowly receding panic. _It's over. Let go. _The Hulk leaned back, staring suspiciously at the now unconscious man beneath him, not trusting Bruce's voice. His anger began to dissipate and logic tried to reassert itself. As the long seconds slipped away, the rage cooled further and further. _Let go._

The disorienting sensation of coming back into his flesh, of control over his body returning, rushed over Bruce. He shrunk back, and it hurt. Dizziness left him reeling, his senses scattered as the Hulk disappeared back into his mind. And now he was sitting over Steve in the tattered remains of his clothes, and it was his hand clenched around the unconscious captain's throat.

Bruce breathed heavily, his heart calming in its adrenaline-fueled rush. He swallowed through a dry throat, his body tingling and aching with exhaustion as it always did after he came back. He loosened his grip, his fingers stiff and uncooperative. He felt Steve's pulse point and found his heart rate was still too fast, though it was improved. He had no idea how long they had before the soldier burned through the dendrotoxin. For the moment, however, the relief was too strong to worry.

Tony collapsed back on his rear. He couldn't catch his breath, glancing dazedly around the remains of his bedroom. He finally met Pepper's gaze. She stepped away from the wall slowly, tentatively, her face white and wet and terrified. She ran on light fight to Tony's side, grabbing onto him. "Are you okay?" she whispered, collapsing to her knees and cupping his bruised face.

"Yeah," he said softly. He set Steve's hand over his belly after Bruce tenderly climbed off Rogers' unmoving body. Steve's chest was evenly rising and falling with nice, calm breaths. Bruce checked his pulse again and found it even slower. The drug was working. _Thank God. _"I'm okay. You're okay. Steve is okay. Bruce?"

Bruce sank to the dirty floor beside the inventor. "Yeah." That was the best he could manage.

Tony patted him on the leg. "Then we're all okay."

It didn't feel that way. The echo of the horrific struggle was loud and hateful and filled the ravaged room. The three of them stared at Steve's sleeping form in front of them, horrified and alarmed beyond coherent thought. They stared like Steve's eyes might snap open at any minute, like he could spring up and threaten them again, just as violent and unhinged and dangerous as he had been minutes before. But he didn't. He was out. _Thank God._

Eventually Tony shook his head. He looked at Bruce. "Now what do we do?"

Bruce didn't know, but whatever it was, they needed to figure it out.

Fast.


	9. Chapter 9

**DISCLAIMER:** _Iron Man 3, The Incredible Hulk,_ _Captain America: The First Avenger,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments on the last chapter. I really appreciate them! For those of you who have noticed that Steve's newfound powers are similar to Sentry's… My knowledge of the comics is decent (I hope), but I actually didn't know about this character until you guys mentioned it. There may be some similarities, but Steve's powers aren't so extreme (at least, I'm not planning it that way!).

With the medical stuff in this chapter, I consider myself somewhat knowledgeable and I do my research, but I'm no expert. If you find any mistakes, please let me know :-). Also, there are a couple of references to parts of _Agents of SHIELD_, but nothing I would call a spoiler.

Well, Steve needs a hug. Good thing Clint is there. Enjoy!

**UNSUSTAINABLE**

**9**

Clint got the call about an hour after he and Romanoff returned to SHIELD Headquarters in Manhattan. He was barely out of the shower when he heard his phone vibrating in the pocket of his jacket. He fished it out, a towel wrapped around his waist and swearing angrily as water dripped all over the floor of the quarters he'd been assigned. He glanced at the caller ID. "Steve, what's up?"

"Barton?" The voice on the other end of the phone was easily recognizable and most definitely not Steve.

Concern immediately dug through Clint. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. "Stark, why the hell do you have Steve's phone?"

"Have you seen the news?"

"I just got back from overseas. I haven't seen anything."

Stark paused. Clint could practically hear the other man fight to stay calm. "Rogers is in some serious trouble. Serious, like _serious,_ trouble." Clint's heart immediately started to pound. The water coating his skin turned icy. Tony had moments (many moments in fact) where he used theatrics and exaggeration to get a rise out of someone, but something told Clint this wasn't one of those times. This was too cruel to be a practical joke. "You need to come down to Stark Tower right away. And you need to promise me you won't freak out. No calling in SHIELD back-up. No calling in _anybody_. I mean it. We need to keep this quiet."

"Stark, what the hell–"

"Just get over here. Hurry." And the line went dead.

Needless to say, Clint hurried. He didn't like Stark, but he'd heard a level of fear and panic in the other man's voice that he'd never heard from him before. Not even when a nuke had been careening toward New York City and the only choice had been to fly it through the Chitauri portal to save them all. That more than anything made Clint keep this quiet, even if his first inclination was to report in. Well, that should have been his first inclination. Above even his duty to SHIELD was his duty to Steve. If Steve needed him, he had to get there.

And if Steve was in trouble… His mind raced with the horrible possibilities. Maybe it wasn't because of what Lahey had done to him, but Clint sincerely doubted it. And he was shaken enough just considering it that he'd immediately defied Tony's request and sought Natasha's support. She sensed his dismay almost instantly, her blue eyes narrowing. "It's Rogers," was all Clint needed to say, and she was dressed and ready to go in a matter of minutes. Stark might have had his problems with SHIELD, but Clint didn't really give a damn. He was a SHIELD agent, and so was she. Steve was, too. But more than that, they were all Avengers. There had been a fateful moment eighteen months ago when they'd all fought side by side against a common enemy as team, bonded together by a dangerous and incredible experience. That counted for a lot. And, whether or not Stark liked it, SHIELD had been a part of that. So if Tony couldn't trust Natasha, he would need to get over it.

Still, he didn't call Fury. Not yet.

They took a SHIELD SUV from the garage and drove to Midtown as fast as possible, though traffic was heavy. He was trying his damnedest to pull up that stoicism he always needed to get him through difficult situations. Natasha was cool and collected beside him in the passenger seat, her keen eyes scanning through the day's news that the onboard computer was displaying for them. It was a rushed, frantic stream of sound bites and video clips, a chaotic show of people screaming and cars exploding and apparently Captain America saving dozens of hostages and innocent civilians from a failed bank robbery. While that was unusual and maybe a bit spectacular, in and of itself it was nothing alarming. The stories shifted to amateur video caught an hour before of the top of Stark Tower apparently being damaged by some unknown, internal attack. The news media had focused its attention on Stark after it was discovered that Stark's girlfriend had been present with Steve during the earlier incident, and they were buzzing like flies with this newest development. Clint glanced at the images, taken with a phone camera on the street below, of the top of the tower shaking and glass shattering and the huge, italicized letters proclaiming "STARK" on the side breaking loose and falling to the ground. It was a miracle that no one had been hurt down on the street. Whatever was going on was every bit as serious as Tony had claimed, and Clint found his heart pounding again.

He should have never left Steve to recover from what happened on his own. He should have denied Fury's orders to go with Romanoff and hunt down the associates of the mercenaries involved with Lahey's plot. He should have stayed at Steve's side, even if his friend had seemed hearty and hale and healthy. That niggling voice of doubt had plagued him the morning he'd driven to Stark Tower to tell Steve he was leaving for the Balkans. He'd tried to ignore it because this was his job, and Steve knew that just as well as he did. This was what they did as SHIELD agents, and they had to take the missions to which they were assigned. And to say he hadn't wanted to hunt those bastards down, to try and get to the bottom of what had happened, would have been a lie. He had to know, both for his sake and for Steve's. Those monsters and anyone and everyone linked to them needed to be eradicated, pulled out by the goddamn roots and flushed from existence. There wasn't much room in their line of work for rest and recovery, but there was a hell of a lot of opportunity for vengeance. Steve hadn't wanted him to do anything rash, and he hadn't really (at least nothing over which he'd lose sleep). And Steve had _told _him to go, knowing that Clint was concerned and looking for a reason to stay without him ever admitting to it.

But Clint should have listened to that voice, that voice full of guilt and worry and doubt. And now as he and Natasha picked through the mob of media and onlookers being held back by Stark's security personnel and entered the Tower, he needed to stay calm. He needed to ignore his fear, his anger and the dark feeling of foreboding gnawing miserably at the pit of his stomach. He needed to focus.

No amount of focus could prepare him for what he found.

"Christ," he whispered as the elevator doors opened and revealed disaster. He shared a quick look with Natasha before stepping out into the mess that was the top floor of Stark Tower. There was debris everywhere, spread across the once spotless floors, strewn through the hallways and rooms. Broken furniture and broken walls and broken glass. It looked like a bomb had exploded.

"Agent Barton." The calm voice startled Clint for a second before he recognized it. "It is nice to see you again, though I wish the circumstances were better."

"JARVIS, right?" Natasha said. She looked around in awe. "What happened?"

"Mr. Stark is in the penthouse. I am certain he will explain." It wasn't an answer, and if a computer could sound unsettled, JARVIS was managing it. The two SHIELD agents shared another worried look before walking quickly through the wreckage toward the huge penthouse. They moved fast, glass crunching under their boots as they wove their way through the hallways. Some rooms were completely demolished, gigantic holes punched through walls. Chunks of drywall spilled into the corridor, and Clint pushed them aside. Eventually they reached what he assumed was Stark's bedroom, stepping through the doors that were ajar rather than the ridiculously huge gaping place where a wall had once been. And now no amount of strength could prepare him for what he saw.

"Steve," he hoarsely whispered. He was across the room in a breath, running toward the bed. Steve lay atop the silk blankets on his side, Stark's girlfriend sitting beside him and tenderly hushing him. He was curled in on himself and trembling uncontrollably. Sweat bathed his face in a glistening sheen. His right shoulder was a mess of burned skin and blood. And his hands were bound behind his back.

"What the hell, Barton?" Stark's angry voice drew his attention, and he whirled to find the inventor coming into the room from a spacious bathroom to their left that thankfully seemed more intact. He was wearing his Iron Man suit though without the helmet, and he carried a large and amply stocked medical grade first aid kit. His furious eyes darted to Romanoff. "Was there a part of 'keep this quiet' you didn't understand?"

Clint couldn't have cared less that Stark was angry. He watched Steve shiver, afraid to even touch him. Steve's face contorted in a vicious grimace, and he was breathing in strained, uneven pants. He looked like he was in intense pain. Everything Clint had been trying to keep under control since leaving SHIELD Headquarters burst to the surface. "Why is he like this? What happened?" he snapped. He turned blazing eyes at Tony. "Let him loose! Can't you see he's in pain?"

Potts looked up. Her cheeks were tear-stained, but she seemed remarkably calm considering her home was in ruin and Captain America was bound and suffering on her bed with his head in her lap. "Tony, hurry," she called. Stark abandoned his angry glare at the two SHIELD agents before turning back to the bed. He staggered over, setting the first aid kit on the floor and flipping it open.

Clint came closer, trying to keep his emotions under control so he could think logically and trying even harder not to see red about the metal bar Iron Man had obviously wrapped around Steve's wrists with his enhanced strength. The captain's ankles were similarly trussed. Thankfully, Natasha was calmer than he was. "What happened?" she asked.

Tony glanced at Pepper. His face was bruised, and his temple was bloodied. Clint could see glass twinkling in his hair. His gauntlets came loose from his hands with a hiss, and he set them to the floor and took a sterile pad and a pair of scissors from the kit. Pepper shushed Steve gently, her hands soothingly carding through his sweat-soaked hair, as Tony reached over and cut and pulled the remains of Steve's green shirt out of the burn. Clint got a better look on it as he came closer. He'd seen that sort of wound before, littering the corpses of the Chitauri on the streets of New York and painting the mercenaries he'd shot down in Lahey's lab. It was a repulsor burn.

Steve's body was taut, every muscle clenched hard under Clint's fingers as he reached over and helped Tony clean the burn. "Stark," Natasha prompted again, "start talking."

"Yeah, um, I don't really know how to say this, so I'm just going to say it. Steve's gone crazy."

Clint supposed that should have been obvious. A hell of a fight had clearly gone down up here, one that had put holes in walls and shattered everything made of glass on the top floors and ripped the "STARK" logo right off the top of the building. And those holes in the walls and ceilings looked disturbingly Hulk-sized. Both Stark and Potts appeared devastated, traumatized, and shaken. But he still couldn't understand that, couldn't connect the damage he saw and the burn on Steve's shoulder with the alarming fact that this fight had probably been between Steve and Tony and Brue. And Steve being crazy? That was damn impossible. Clint knew Steve the best out of anyone, and there wasn't anything that could drive Steve to hurt anyone who wasn't well-validated and proven as evil. Steve was steadfast, moral, kind, and compassionate. Steve was quiet and honest. Steve was _Captain America_. And _nothing_ could make Captain America violent, let alone _this _violent.

"Stop. Hold on. What do you mean crazy?" Natasha asked. She looked around again, surveying the massive destruction. Clint knew her far too well to not notice the fear in her eyes, how deeply worried she was becoming.

"I mean goddamn nuts," Tony tightly responded. He grabbed a saline wash bottle from the kit and squeezed it over the angry burn. Steve groaned and tried to curl in on himself more but didn't wake. "Lahey's experiment did something to him. Something really bad. Apparently he's a telekinetic now."

"A… A what?"

"A telekinetic," Stark snapped irately. He turned to look sharply over his shoulder at Natasha. "You know, moving things with his mind?"

That was impossible. That sort of nonsense didn't exist outside of comic books and movies. That was… Natasha's eyes glanced to the bleeding welt on Stark's hairline. "How hard did you hit your head?"

"I'm serious! _Look_ around! You think this just happened by itself?" Desperation cracked Stark's voice. None of his normal calm and cool arrogance was there. None of his sarcastic mirth. He was raw and frightened. "He almost killed us before we got through to him!"

"It wasn't his fault," Pepper said, holding Steve tighter as a shudder wracked his huge frame. Her blue eyes were watery with tears. "He didn't know what he was doing."

Tony shook his head. He went back to tending the wound. "Doesn't matter. We need to do something fast. We knocked him out, but the sedative won't last long with the way his body burns through stuff. We've already had to dose him again. We can't let him wake up. He can't control what he's doing, and it's feeding off his emotions. This whole thing is so screwed up. So screwed up. He's out of his mind. We have to keep him unconscious until–"

"Hold on! Hold on!" Natasha stammered. She was flustered, at a total loss. It took a lot to leave Black Widow bereft of her composure. "Just… I mean, how…"

Tony flashed furious eyes at her. "Let me put this in simple terms," he said condescendingly. His distress was fueling the venom in his voice. "Lahey's wonder drug that we all thought did nothing? It did something. It did something really bad. Steve pulled a gun ten feet through the air to his hand and shot someone. He stopped a commuter bus from crushing a family without even _touching _it. He shorted out the Tower's power system just by getting angry. My new decorating job? Courtesy of Hurricane Steve."

"Stark, just take it easy," Natasha said as calmly as she could. Pepper reached over and grasped Tony's shoulder, helpless tears slipping from her eyes.

Tony bowed his head. He looked crushed under concern. Guilt. Clint couldn't fathom ever seeing such a thing as shame beat down the egocentric billionaire. "I know it sounds crazy, and it is. It's unbelievable. But you need to believe me. Bruce said Steve came to him right before this happened. Said he was having these intense nightmares and migraines. Had been for days, I guess, and it was driving him insane. Literally insane. Maybe if we'd noticed…"

Clint couldn't help the hot burn of his anger. Seeing Steve like this, hearing what Stark was saying about him… Apparently Rogers had been suffering, suffering to the point of madness right in front of their eyes, and they hadn't done a single thing to help him. "Why didn't you?" he harshly demanded.

"Because I screwed up!" Tony returned just as hotly. "And until today he _seemed_ fine! He kept saying he was okay! How were we supposed to know he was lying?"

"Tony," Pepper murmured softly.

Stark looked at her, at her crestfallen expression and imploring eyes. He sighed and shook his head again. "It doesn't matter," he repeated, this time his voice more forceful and resolute. "Who knows if we would have been able to do anything to stop it. Point is: we need to do something now."

"What?"

"I don't know!" Stark's frustration was striking. Clint didn't know him that well, but for him to admit that he couldn't fix something, that he didn't know _how _to fix something, seemed difficult for him. And that rang of how serious this situation was. Stark and Banner were two of the smartest men alive, geniuses by all rights, and if they weren't sure what to do… "I don't want SHIELD involved. I don't want _anyone_ involved if we can avoid it because what's happening to him isn't just dangerous. As sick as it was, Lahey's experiment _worked._" Clint swallowed thickly, his eyes drifting to Steve's shivering body beneath his hands. What Stark wasn't saying was frightfully clear. If he was right and Steve now had some powers of telekinesis (powers _strong enough_ to do this much damage and render two of the Avengers scrambling to stop him), the consequences could be devastating and not just for him.

There wasn't a government or organization on the planet that wouldn't kill to get its hands on a super soldier who could alter the world with his mind.

_Holy shit._

"We need to get him some place hidden and safe. We need time to figure this out. I don't trust anyone else to do it. I don't trust anyone to help without trying to use him." Stark gave a small shake of his head and turned his eyes to Clint. They were calm now. Open. Tentatively imploring. "But I trust you. You wouldn't hurt him or hand him over to someone else who would. You're his friend."

The way Tony said that, so certain and relieved, struck Clint deeply. The archer released a slow breath, trying to wrap his mind around this. It didn't seem true. It couldn't be. He supposed it had been too much to hope that Lahey's experiment hadn't had any effects. It had been too much to put his faith in the fact that Steve had seemed healthy and unaffected. The last time he'd seen Steve his eyes had been bright and his smile had been easy. The grief and rage robbed him of coherent thought for a moment, and he squeezed his free hand into a fist hard enough to drive his nails painfully into his palm. He should never have left. _He should never have left!_

Steve gasped, kicking weakly, and Clint struggled to hold his lower body still. The sight of his friend's hands bound behind him angered him again, but then he watched Steve's fingers flexing and his muscles in his arms twisting and shifting as he unconsciously worked against the make-shift restraints. Maybe Stark had been right to tie him up like this. He was shaking harder and harder, battling against nightmares and demons in his mind it seemed. He didn't look sedated in the least. His face screwed into a tight grimace. He moaned through clenched teeth. "Where's Banner?" Clint asked worriedly.

Stark finished washing the burn out, the bloody water spilling all over his expensive bedspread. "Down in the lab trying to cook up some more sedative," he answered. "Hold this. We need to hurry." Clint reached up and held the bandages in place while Tony unwound gauze and wrapped it around the injury. Normally a burn this bad would require more extensive treatment, but with Steve's enhanced healing, he would be fine. And taking him to a hospital was out of the question, so they had to make do with what they had. "Tape."

Pepper fumbled for that, holding Steve's head to her stomach as she reached into the kit for the medical tape. She ripped off a few strips and handed them to Stark. Steve groaned again as Tony carefully secured the dressings to his shoulder. The inventor rushed to finish, looking increasingly dismayed. "Don't tell me he's waking up again."

Clint dumbly shook his head, unsure of what to make of any of this. He looked down at Steve, watching his eyes rove mindlessly, desperately, beneath tightly closed lids. "He's not waking up," Clint said. "He's dreaming."

That became frightfully obvious a second later when Steve threw his head back and tried to roll away. The sound of his ragged cry took Clint right back to the hellish nightmare in the lab, and it was only with practiced composure fostered from years of dealing with dangerous and difficult situations that he was able to ignore his own bad memories. "Easy!" he said, wrapping his arm around Steve's middle and steadying him. "Easy!"

The room _rumbled_. It was like an earthquake. Things fell. Sections of the ceiling, battered and pulverized by the earlier struggle, busted loose and smashed to the floor. Tony was up, leaning over Pepper as she held Steve's head tighter against her, debris smashing uselessly against the back of Iron Man. Natasha looked around wildly, wide-eyed and pale. She whispered something in Russian. The huge windows displaying the summer twilight behind them rattled, and Steve screamed again. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Don't hurt me!"

"Steve, no one's going to hurt you," Clint assured him. He tried to calm the writhing body. "Steve!"

"Yeah, that doesn't work," Tony said. "JARVIS, tell me Bruce is coming!"

"He is on his way, sir. The structural stability of the penthouse is becoming compromised. There are fires on the 31st, 32nd, and 34th floors. Fire suppression systems are online, but I suggest you move to a safer location," the AI calmly announced.

That didn't seem to be an option, not with everything falling apart around them and the soldier mindlessly suffering on the bed in front of them. Steve gasped a sob, whispering things Clint couldn't quite hear. Clint wasn't so ready to give up on getting through to him. It was a nightmare. If they could wake him from that, get him to listen and calm down… Pepper let go as Tony pulled her from the bed, and Clint took her spot. He grasped his friend's agonized face in his hands. "Steve, it's Clint. Come on. You're alright. You need to wake up."

"Bucky?" came a hoarse whimper.

Clint knew well who that was. Something inside him ached. "It's Clint," he reminded. "Calm down."

Blue eyes half-lidded and swimming with tears peered up at him. "He didn't mean to," Steve whispered. "He really didn't. I swear. He never means to, Buck."

Maybe playing along would be better. Maybe that would provide some comfort, at least. "I know." This was something dark, something deeply buried in Steve's mind that was coming to the surface. Clint was damn proficient at reading people, and he knew his friend well enough to see it in his face. His eyes were the eyes of a scared little kid. He'd seen eyes like those before. His brother's eyes. His eyes, staring back at him in a mirror amidst the bruises covering his face. Bruises put there by his father. Clint ached. "It's okay."

Steve's face crumpled into a wince, and suddenly he arched his back like he was trapped in some sort of hellish seizure. His body bent with enough force to break bones and rip skin, and Clint let him go. He watched, wide-eyed and terrified beyond any rational thought, as the windows behind them completely shattered. The razor-sharp glass exploded into the penthouse. It seemed to happen in slow motion, a million shards twinkling as they rotated and spun in the sunset. When the Avengers were never struck, never sliced or cut or gouged, Clint realized the glass didn't just look slow. It _was _slow.

"Oh, my God," Natasha whispered. The shards dangled in front of them and around them and over them like some sort of twisted, deconstructed chandelier. Seconds passed in utter shock as everything glittered and glowed in an achingly lethargic show, dispersing in a beautifully random pattern. A particularly large piece floated past Stark's face. He reached a tentative hand forward from where he held Pepper tightly to his chest, his eyes wide. He tapped the shard and sent it spinning. He watched it turn and turn, transfixed, shocked into a stupor. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

Just as suddenly as all of this had happened, it was over. Steve sagged back onto the bed. The glass fell straight to the floor like crystal rain.

Silence. Shaking breaths fleeing through trembling lips. Shuddering hearts. "Believe me now?" Tony asked softly.

"Holy hell," Clint breathed. Steve gasped in front of him, struggling weakly against his bindings. If he'd been aware enough to put all of his strength into it, he could have ripped them apart. Clint was afraid to touch the other man, but his trepidation disappeared when Steve sobbed and rolled back onto his side and bent himself as tightly as he could into a fetal position, drawing his knees up to his forehead. Clint laid his hand on Steve's arm, trying to offer whatever comfort he could. He didn't think Steve even knew he was there. "How is this possible?"

There was a shuffling clamor behind them. "Oh, thank God," Tony said as Banner pushed through the wreckage by the door. He had two vials in his hand and a syringe. "We need to get him back under."

"Stark, this is… We need to call in somebody," Natasha said.

Bruce rushed to the bed, eyeing the new damage and his friends' white faces in dread. "The dendrotoxin isn't working as well as I'd hoped. And this is the last of it. I can't make more here. I'm out of the precursors."

"How do we get more?"

Bruce jabbed the needle into the vial and drew the clear liquid inside. "We can't. I stopped stocking up on it when I realized it wasn't going to work on the Hulk. And the corner drug store doesn't exactly sell snake venom."

Tony sighed. "Then we need to find something else like yesterday."

Bruce grabbed an alcohol swab from the medical kit and wiped down Steve's arm (not that it mattered – he couldn't get sick, and the minute chance of an infection was definitely the least of his worries). He injected him with the sedative, watching nervously for a few long seconds afterward. But Steve relaxed in short order and his eyes closed more fully. He lost consciousness without a fight. Bruce shook his head, reaching his hand under Steve's jaw to count his pulse. He didn't look pleased with what he found. "We can't keep doing this to him anyway. It's putting tremendous strain on his heart. We need to find a more permanent solution."

"What's happening to him?" Clint asked softly. He couldn't tear his eyes from Steve's lax face.

Bruce sighed wearily. He looked exhausted. He pulled his glasses from his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know," he said. "Obviously Dan's serum interacted with his body in some way we couldn't detect before. I won't know more until I run some tests, which I can't do here."

"Stark," Natasha said more firmly, "we _need _to call someone in on this."

"Sure," Tony said acidly. "Who do you trust?"

Natasha looked lost and aggravated, again two things that were entirely uncharacteristic of her. She didn't answer that, not even with the obvious response. Clint caught her eyes, uncertain himself. SHIELD was vast and powerful with some of the best minds in science in its ranks. They had state of the art research and medical facilities on hand, filled with all of the cutting edge equipment and technologies money could buy. And Steve was an agent of SHIELD. They already had doctors familiar with his unique physiology, in addition to the mountains of data on Lahey and his experiments. Bringing them in on this was only logical.

But SHIELD had its dark side. It had been growing for some time. They'd both noticed it. There were ambitions in the shadows, deep and hungry, dreams wielded by powerful men in the higher echelons who controlled funding and resources. And it was no secret that SHIELD had been interested in the super soldier serum. Not many people knew it but it had only been due to Fury's protection that Steve hadn't been stuck in a lab when they'd pulled him from the ice. It had also been Fury's command that had kept SHIELD (and other interested people) off Bruce's trail and that had kept Iron Man in the hands of Tony and had let Thor leave the planet with the Tesseract. Perhaps SHIELD wasn't what it used to be, but Clint still trusted Nick Fury.

It was Bruce, however, who made the argument. He stood from the bedside, recapping the needle carefully. "We have to go back to SHIELD. We need all of their data on the experiment. And I need to talk to Dan."

Tony visibly buckled, drawing everyone's attention. His face went white beneath the bruises. "Yeah, well, unfortunately that's not going to happen." He grimaced and looked at Banner apologetically. "Lahey's dead."

Despite the enormity of what was happening, the gravity and sheer impossibility of it, Stark's soft announcement seemed downright earth-shattering. Bruce's face broke in horror. "Oh, God," he moaned.

"When?" Clint demanded.

"He committed suicide this morning. Fury called earlier today to let me know," Stark explained. He shook his head. "If he'd waited another day, he could have seen the wonderful results of his life's work."

The words weren't serious. They were loaded with sarcasm, with that twinge of insanity brought on by too much irony over a really bad situation, but they rubbed Clint raw and before he could contain himself, he was in Stark's face. He really didn't give a damn that the inventor's armor was unbreakable to his mere mortal strength. He didn't give a damn about anything right then except venting the emotions poisoning him. "He was a sick son of a bitch," he snarled, his eyes flashing in warning, "and a goddamn coward. And now we have _nothing_ to go on. I'm not watching Steve die again because of that bastard."

"You think I don't know how fundamentally screwed we are? I watched Rogers turn from the world's least rile-able man to a twitchy lunatic in less than an hour! He almost choked me. He almost killed Pepper!" Pepper herself looked frail and frightened at that, but she stepped closer and reached for Stark's hand. She wasn't just trying to assure him that she was okay. She was trying to calm him. The last thing they needed was more anger, more stress, or more erratic behavior. "This is getting exponentially worse. And if he's blowing up the top of my tower now, what the hell is going to be capable of doing in a few hours? Tomorrow?" Clint could hardly breathe. He knew what was coming. "If we can't fix him, we…" Tony couldn't finish.

"We what?" Clint snapped. "We lock him up and throw away the key? We kill him?"

The mere thought of that was harsh and overwhelming. It shocked them both, as though neither of them had truly considered the possibility until that moment. "Whoa, whoa," Natasha said. She touched Clint's shoulder to pull him away. The tension was thick and unbearable as the two men stared each other down. "Let's not go there. There's no reason to. Bruce is right; we need to get in contact with SHIELD and transport Rogers to a facility where he's contained. Then we can figure out what we're dealing with."

"Not SHIELD. I don't trust SHIELD," Stark argued.

Natasha was a master at keeping herself under control. Her expression was placid and her voice was level, even as Tony basically accused the organization for which they worked of having less than honorable practices. "It can be kept quiet. Nobody has to know."

"Excuse me if I think you're full of shit," Tony said. "You want to keep a secret this big inside of an organization whose sole purpose is to expose secrets. That's complete and utter–"

"Tony, stop." It was the first thing Bruce had said since learning of Lahey's suicide. The physicist had been standing stock still, his eyes glazed and his expression empty, staring at Steve's motionless form on the bed. His blank face hardened into a determined expression, and he looked up at Stark. "There's no choice. We need what SHIELD has."

Tony was visibly gritting his teeth. Clint tried to believe he was acting this way because he was truly worried about Steve and what could happen to him if the wrong people got a hold of him now and not because he was just being an asshole. Before all of this had happened, he would have assumed the latter. But Stark glanced at Steve again, and he was clearly worried. He was frightened about this escalating more into the unknown and the unpredictable and the uncontrollable. Facing Steve as he had had shaken him. Clint could only imagine. That moment before had been just a taste of what Tony, Bruce, and Pepper had barely survived. "Just Fury?"

Natasha nodded. "He has the power to keep this under wraps," she assured, "and he's smart enough to realize that it needs to be." She glanced at Clint again, seeking his support. Clint nodded. Banner was right, at any rate. There was no choice.

Stark's jaw clenched. "Fine. You got a way to get him out of here? And where are we taking him?"

Natasha glanced to Bruce. "There's a place," she said softly, "up the Hudson a bit. It's… You'll see when we get there."

* * *

They did see when they got there. And Banner looked just a bit livid, justifiably so. "I take it staying away from me wasn't always SHIELD's policy."

Natasha had the decency to wince with shame. "No."

Bruce shook his head sadly, glancing around in a mixture of disgust and awe. "Why am I not surprised."

They stood in the middle of a massive underground laboratory. State of the art computers and holographic terminals surrounded them, at the moment dark and idle. There were smaller labs and offices spread around the central room, filled with equipment and desks. Ahead of them was a room that looked like a surgical suite, with a main operating theater flanked by counters loaded with tools and medical paraphernalia and carts that held scanners and defibrillators and vials and vials full of drugs. Adjacent to that were other rooms, patient rooms with hospital beds and chairs and monitors. And there was a particularly large room just visible beyond that had a huge glass observation window which ran its entire circumference. Inside there was a bed, a toilet, and a sink, but nothing else. Hazmat and biohazard suits and signs were stationed all around the lab, and a clean room connected to the exterior of both the surgical suite and that glass room, that glass room that bore a striking resemblance to the cage on the helicarrier that had nearly sent Thor plummeting to his death during Loki's war.

Fury stood beside Banner. His face had been dark with anger and concern for the entire ride to this secret SHIELD research facility buried in Sterling Forest north of New York City. It was clearly unused. Clint hadn't even known it existed. The Director sighed and his scowl loosened just slightly. "If it makes you feel better, this place wasn't designed specifically for you," he said.

"Not really, no," Bruce returned.

"These facilities were all part of Project: Containment after you had your accident and we started to realize that the nature of war was changing. Biological weapons and situations like your own couldn't be dealt with anywhere near the public. More than a dozen labs like this are located throughout the country near major metropolitan areas. They're meant to be a safe place to assess the extent of a biological threat."

"Damn convenient," Stark muttered. "Where are we putting him? Because he's heavy."

Iron Man had Steve collected in his embrace, Clint helping him with his burden. Bruce looked around briefly as Natasha went about switching on lights and computer systems. He sighed as if he couldn't quite believe what he was about to do. "I assume that room back there is… Hulk-proof?"

Fury tipped his head in a bit of shame. "You assume correctly."

"Let's put him there then. At least he won't be able to shatter the glass. I hope."

They quickly went about getting Steve into the cage (it wasn't a _cage_ by any means, but Clint could only think of it that way). Tony staggered inside and set the soldier's limp body atop the bed. Steve was deeply unconscious again; they'd been forced to give him another injection of the dendrotoxin on the drive the second he'd begun stirring in the back of the SUV. Thankfully that had lasted. Clint knelt beside him. "Can we untie him now?"

"You think that's a good idea?" Stark asked.

Clint skewered him with an irate stare. "I think anything that keeps him calm and not feeling like a prisoner is a good idea, yes," he shortly answered.

"Fair enough." With the gauntlet of his suit, Tony sliced through the metal bar he'd wrapped around Steve's wrists. The laser made equally short work of the bindings around his ankles.

Bruce came inside the room, bearing vials and a needle and a tourniquet and gloves. He snapped those on his hands. "Let's do this before he wakes up. Natasha, fire up the biometric scanners out there?"

She stood at the main computer console outside the room, her hands flying over the touch screens of the various stations. Stark watched as Banner knelt beside Steve, tied the tourniquet around his bicep, and found a vein in his right arm. Tony didn't seem capable of standing still, fidgeting and shifting his weight and eventually leaving back out through the clean room. He stood beside Romanoff and helped her with the computers. "So this Project: Containment," he said, his eyes narrowed as he appraised the screens around them. "Obviously this place isn't in use. So what happened? SHIELD decided to back off?"

Fury shrugged. He had hardly taken his gaze off of Steve's limp form. Clint watched him with a bit of worry. He'd never seen the Director so tense. He wondered if it was because he was taking a risk doing this, keeping this secret from the rest of SHIELD and the World Security Council. Maybe it was because he was concerned for Rogers (that was surely part of it. Nick Fury was cold and calculating, but he wasn't heartless). Clint had a sinking suspicion, however, that he was afraid that this was going to degrade into a situation that wasn't controllable or even imaginable. "The Council decided that keeping threats like this in a remote location invited attack. It was too much of a risk. It was also difficult to spread resources so thinly among all these installations, particularly when experts in biomedical and genetic engineering capable of handling situations like these aren't easy to come by."

"So where is SHIELD containing things now?" Stark asked.

Clint looked out of the cage to Natasha. She halted in her work a moment, her brow furrowing in dismay. "The Fridge," Fury answered curtly. "And let's not talk about that because things that end up there don't typically come back out."

Bruce finished drawing Steve's blood. "Here, Clint," he said, pushing a cotton swab over the oozing hole.

Clint took over as Bruce gathered his things. "What next?"

"We need a CT and an MRI. I trust you have those here?" Fury nodded. "I'm also going to need access to a lab where I can run some genetic testing. But let's do the imaging first. We probably should do an EEG, too."

"Whatever you think, doctor," Fury said.

"Tony?" Stark came back around through the clean room into the cage. He reached down to move Steve, but the soldier snapped awake. Tony backpedaled, his eyes widening in sudden and palpable terror. Steve's eyes widened, too, and he scrambled like he was jolted across the bed until his back hit the wall.

"Whoa, whoa," Clint said, putting himself between Steve and Tony.

Steve looked around frantically. "Where am I?" he demanded. The Avengers were still, watching their captain worriedly, frightened that at any moment he could slip back into some sort of telekinetic hysteria. But, thankfully and inexplicably, Steve seemed fairly calm. "Where?"

Clint fought the urge to glance at Tony. He needed to stay cool, and at the moment Steve seemed focused on him. He needed to keep his attention as much as he could. "Easy, Steve," he said quietly. He slowly sat beside his friend on the bed, keeping enough distance to not seem a threat while remaining close enough to not seem afraid or upset. There was no sense in lying. This was serious, and hiding that from the soldier seemed cruel and unwise. He didn't think he could do it, anyway. "We're in a SHIELD research facility. We brought you here so Doctor Banner can check you over."

That seemed to be too much for Steve to understand. He glanced around wildly, and he started trembling again. Clint didn't like the fear he saw building. "Steve?" He moved closer and firmly set his hand on his friend's knee. "Steve?"

Blue eyes, brighter than Clint remembered, shot to him. They just looked at each other for what felt to be an eternity of tension. He could feel Tony, stiff and unyielding behind him, and his doubt was so powerful it seemed to be its own force beating against Clint's back. Bruce stood still too, paralyzed it seemed, holding his samples and trying not to be mortified. He could only pray the other two men would be silent and not make any threatening moves. For the moment, at least, Clint could see that Steve was in control, and he wanted to keep it that way. "Steve," he said again, squeezing the other man's knee.

"Clint," Steve said softly.

Clint smiled. "Yeah."

"What happened? I thought you were gone."

"You don't remember?"

It was obvious that he didn't. His face was fractured in confusion. He worried his lower lip with his teeth, looking around again to Tony and Bruce, taking in his surroundings. Clint feared anew that where he was would upset him, but he was remarkably grounded. "I…" He trailed off, and a wince returned as he frowned. "Oh, God."

"Stay calm," Clint reminded. "Nobody was hurt."

"I almost killed Pepper," Steve whispered. He closed his eyes and sagged against the wall. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Clint responded, praying the stiffness of his voice was enough to ward Tony off from saying anything. "You didn't hurt anyone, Steve." Steve didn't seem to believe that for a second, remaining tucked against the wall. He crumpled in exhaustion, and his brow creased in another grimace. Stark had mentioned something about this being tied to Steve's emotions, particularly the bad ones, so the sight of his friend sinking down into grief and guilt was distressing for more than just the obvious reasons. "Hey, you wanna take a walk?"

That was sufficient to pull Steve from his depression. He dropped his hands from his face and appraised Clint evenly. "Where?"

"To the CT scanner. Come on," Clint said. He managed a smile somehow. "Bruce wants a look at your brain."

Steve choked on a laugh at that. "To see what's left of it?"

Hearing him make a joke, even one as pathetic sounding as that, was immensely relieving. They had Steve with them right then by whatever grace of God or stroke of good fortune. Clint didn't even entertain the thought that maybe his condition was just a transient thing, that maybe it would resolve itself. It would be too painful if that didn't happen. "Something like that," Clint lightly responded. "Come on."

Steve didn't fight him (thankfully) as he slid an arm around the soldier's back. Tony came closer, offering Steve a disarming smile. "On your feet, Cap." With Iron Man's help, they got Steve standing. He wavered badly for a moment like he was extremely dizzy, and his face turned a miserable shade of green. "Don't you dare puke on my suit," Tony quipped lightly (though not entirely facetiously).

"How bad is it, Steve?" Bruce asked in concern. "Pain or nausea?"

Steve swallowed uncomfortably, adamantly trying to abide by Tony's request. "Both," he gasped. "And bad. Haven't felt like this since… since before the serum."

"We'll take it really slow," Clint swore. "Okay?"

Steve swallowed again and nodded after a second. They started walking out of the cage toward the clean room. They moved out to the hall where Natasha and Fury were waiting for them. "Hey, Rogers," Natasha greeted softly with a tender smile that belied her reputation. She took Steve from Stark so that he could go ahead and help Bruce prepare the scanner. Steve was significantly taller than her (than Clint, too, but for some reason it was more striking compared to her slight frame), but she shouldered his weight like it was nothing. "Don't worry about anything, okay? We're going to take care of this."

Steve caught Fury's eye. "What are you doing here?" he gasped. His face grew a shade paler if that was possible. "Who knows about this?"

"Don't worry about that, either," the Director said.

"I don't want anyone else here." Steve's eyes glimmered in panic again, and Clint leapt to stop it from growing.

"Nobody else is coming. You're safe," Clint assured. "Come on. You're heavy."

"Told you!" Stark joked. Clint thanked whatever forces that were that everyone was following his lead and trying to keep this light and casual and non-combative. It would be far simpler to diagnose and deal with Steve's condition if he was pliant and cooperative, so whatever they could do to foster a serene, stress-free environment they should do. Lights flooded the hallway further down. The group shuffled down the corridor, though more than once Steve groaned and stopped and dropped his head to his chest and breathed through teeth driven tightly together. Eventually they reached the room with the CT scanner.

Bruce was waiting. Steve stopped in the door, looking at the bed and the scanner unhappily. "I need to start an IV for the contrast," Banner said. "That okay, Steve?"

It didn't seem to be, but Steve was more in control of himself than they'd anticipated. He nodded, pulling away from Natasha and Clint and taking a few halting steps by himself to the bed. He looked huge on it when he sat. Bruce moved quickly and with well-practiced precision, inserting the IV in Steve's arm in a matter of a minute. He looked down at the captain, warm but not without wariness. "You're going to need to lie very still in the chamber. Think you can do that?"

Steve nodded wearily. "I can try."

Bruce patted his shoulder in comfort and gratitude. "Great. I'll do this as fast as possible. Lie down."

Steve complied. Clint stepped closer, taking his friend's hand for a moment, smiling in encouragement. "Buck up, right, Rogers?"

"Sure," Steve said with half a grin. Clint squeezed his fingers and reluctantly joined the others in the control room.

They ran the scans. The machine whirred and hummed loudly, but to his credit, Steve stayed still. Clint didn't know what he was looking at when the cross-sectional images started to appear on the monitors. "You think it's a good idea to be exposing him to more radiation?" Tony asked as he handled the computer.

"I have no clue," Bruce tiredly admitted. He leaned over Stark's shoulder, his quick eyes devouring the data appearing before him. The others hung back, waiting for Banner to render some sort of opinion. Clint exchanged a concerned look with Natasha, but she was as lost as he was. He turned his gaze back to the scanner; he could only see Steve's feet from his vantage, and they seemed to be thankfully limp and still. He held his breath, hoping this ended before Steve lost his composure. "I don't see anything unusual."

Fury shook his head. "That's a good thing, isn't it?"

Bruce tipped his head and sighed forcefully enough to puff out his lips. "I'm not sure. I don't have any basis for analyzing this. Everything seems normal, but all that means is whatever's causing his problems isn't obvious structurally. No tumors, no masses. No clots or aneurysms or malformations. His brain looks pristine, shockingly enough." Bruce didn't look all that surprised actually. "We should still get an MRI, but it probably won't tell us anything more. I need to run genetic tests and take a look on a cellular level. We're going to need to do another lumbar puncture."

Clint winced. The last time they'd done that had been awful enough. "Is that necessary?"

"Better than a brain biopsy," he responded.

"How much time will all of this take?" Fury asked.

"Why?" snapped Stark. The inventor turned in his chair to glare at the other man. "You got someplace better to be?"

"Rogers nearly destroyed the top half of your tower, Stark," Fury irately returned. "And I doubt that'll be the end of it. We need to get a handle on this quickly, wouldn't you agree?"

"Why?" Stark demanded again. "Before SHIELD finds out Lahey's little experiment turned out to be a success? Then what happens, Nick? Men with guns come and take him away to your Fridge?"

"Stark, stop it," Natasha coldly ordered. "This isn't helping."

He skewered her with an icy glare. "No, what would have helped is having Lahey around to answer some goddamn questions. How is it exactly that a man in the custody of the world's best soldiers and spies manages to kill himself? What, did you forget to take the sheets out of his cell this morning?"

"Don't," she warned, and now her tone was thick with malice.

Clint couldn't stand to hear the bickering anymore. The room was cleared to enter, and he stormed through the door and to the table as its motors moved it out from the scanner. Steve sat up as soon as he could, turning to his side and promptly throwing up. Clint grimaced and ran to his side, setting a firm hand to the other man's back as his stomach intently tried to invert itself within him. "It's alright," he said, turning helpless eyes back to the control room. Bruce ran out, but Clint didn't know why any of them bothered. There wasn't anything they could do.

Steve suffered until he was reduced to a shivering, sweating mess. Even then he continued to dry heave painfully. "Damn it," he groaned, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. He yanked the IV clear out of his arm as he doubled over.

"It's alright," Clint said again. He felt like a goddamn broken record.

"It's not alright!" Steve yelled. Something above them shattered. Glass fell down on them in a piercing rain. Steve seemed surprised, raising his hand above his head to protect himself, but that only succeeded in causing more things to break. The fluorescent lights exploded. Steve groaned in pain but even more in exasperation. He threw his hands out and the shards were flung to the other side of the room before they could strike anyone.

Clint stood still for a moment in surprise. The glass sparkled against the far wall where it had been driven into the sheet rock. "Hey," he said, forcing a smile to his face though he didn't feel happy in the least. "You controlled it."

Steve sobbed once, his eyes filled with frightened and frustrated tears. "Is that a good thing?"

Honestly Clint didn't know.

* * *

They did the MRI, which thankfully proceeded without any complications. Bruce looked unhappy with the results, though not so much because there was something wrong. It was the _lack_ of anything substantive that was frustrating him, even though it was what he'd expected. Still, he kept all the images so that he could examine them more closely later.

They helped Steve change out of his clothes into some loose-fitting scrubs. Bruce had redressed his burned shoulder with antibiotic salve and fresh bandages. He'd been completely silent since the incident in the CT scanner, like he'd just shut off and withdrawn into himself. Clint was worried about the vacant expression in his eyes, the pliant limpness of his body, his complete unwillingness to interact with them beyond the barest and simplest of answers. They prepared him for the spinal tap. There was no way to numb Steve to the discomfort, and the procedure had been miserably unpleasant back at the SHIELD infirmary when the soldier hadn't been suffering so acutely. But Steve had agreed without even needing to hear Bruce's logic, and with Tony's and Clint's hands gently restraining him and Natasha's wrapped firmly in his own for comfort, they'd gotten it done. He didn't realize until afterward how hard Steve had struggled to not crush Natasha's fingers in his. That made him wonder how hard Steve had struggled to keep everything else under control, which in turn made him wonder if Steve was truly figuring out how to contend with his newfound powers. He didn't feel brave enough to even bring it up.

Steve's steps were wobbly at best as they headed back to the cage. Natasha helped him walk inside while Tony and Bruce worked outside, configuring the biometric sensors to provide continuous reports of Steve's vitals. They were talking about the data, about DNA analysis and needing to pull in the computer cluster at Stark Industries to run simulations faster. Clint stood outside the clean room, his arms folded over his chest. Inside the cell, Black Widow disappeared before his eyes, leaving behind a soft voice and gentle hands and an encouraging smile. Clint watched her get Steve a glass of water, which he sipped slowly at her command. Her hand lingered on his shoulder and she said something to him that Clint couldn't hear. She turned and walked out, and that moment of compassion was gone behind an angry, helpless visage.

Fury came to stand beside him. "Never thought I'd see Captain America in a cage built for the Hulk," he quietly declared. Clint stiffened at that, settling a hard look on his superior. But there was only regret on Fury's face. "I've got Hill downloading all of our data on Lahey to the servers here. Level eight clearance. It will be untraceable."

"Somebody's going to figure it out," Clint reminded him. As much as they wanted to believe they could keep this quiet, the media was all over the day's events, both the robbery Steve had stopped and the explosions rocking the top of Stark Tower. "You think someone at SHIELD would want…"

"Somebody warned Lahey's thugs that you and the Cap were headed their way. And I don't believe in coincidences. Whoever it was planned to bring Rogers, Lahey, and Banner together."

Clint didn't like the sound of this. The implications were disturbing to say the least. If this whole thing was some sort of carefully construed plot, then somebody at SHIELD had betrayed them. Somebody had gone to great lengths to have this experiment to succeed. And that somebody (and whoever it was they were working for) might want access to the results.

Fury's eye narrowed. "Keep this secure, Barton. I need to get back to HQ before somebody notices I've been out of communication. Use secure channels through Hill if you need to reach me."

"Yes, sir."

Fury stalked away. If the hard lines of his posture were any indication, he was going to go back to SHIELD Headquarters and start digging for answers himself. Fury was still the best spy in the world, the most relentless and the most ruthless. If there was a mole for AIM in SHIELD, he would find it.

Clint stood still for a moment longer. He watched Steve sit listlessly on the bed, wavering and seemingly teetering on the brink of collapse, staring brokenly at the tiled floor but not seeing anything. He could tell the pain was back. He hurt while he stared at his friend as broken, lost, and defeated as he was. This wasn't right. _None _of this was right.

He stepped inside the clean room. Beyond that there was a supply closet, where he grabbed a few pillows and blankets. When he walked back, Steve looked up. There was blood dripping down his face from his nose, and he grimaced, reaching for a tissue from the box on the end of the bed. Clint bit hard on his tongue to keep his emotions in check, coming closer and setting the bedding aside to help. He grabbed the box. "Tilt your head forward," he ordered softly. He handed Steve a few tissues.

Steve swallowed, looking decidedly sick again as he tried to stem the flow of blood. "You shouldn't be in here."

"Well, I am." Clint took the mess away and handed him a new set of tissues. They were silent for a moment, and the lab was so quiet and still that Clint felt like he could hear Steve's heart pounding just by watching the veins pulse in his neck. "Why didn't you tell anyone this was happening?"

Steve experimentally pulled the tissues away and found the nosebleed was better. He sniffed weakly, wiping his face clean. He was shaking again. Shaking badly. "I just… I was stupid. I didn't want to admit to myself that something was wrong. I wasn't strong enough."

Clint sat beside him on the bed. He wrapped an arm around Steve's shoulders and pulled him closer. He knew Steve was proud, but more than that, he knew he kept things hidden. He kept his injuries, physical and emotional, under guard. He didn't do it because of some sort of martyr complex or because he thought lowly of himself. He did it because he was strong, because he could take the hits and keep fighting, and because people looked to him for strength and courage especially in the darkest of hours. He didn't want anyone to be hurt or troubled or even discouraged on his account.

There was a time and place for that. It wasn't here and it wasn't now. "You're the one who always tells me not to go it alone," he said.

Steve looked down. "I know," he whispered. Clint watched him struggle with his emotions. He'd never fathomed that something like that could herald so much devastation. A period of uncomfortable silence followed. Tears built anew in Steve's eyes, but he didn't cry. "Back there… That wasn't the first time I controlled it. I killed someone today."

"Stark said that. You didn't have a choice. And it sounds like you saved far more people than you hurt."

"You don't understand. I was so angry, so out of control. I could have killed Pepper. And Tony. I could have–"

"You didn't. Come on, Steve. Hold it together. Whatever this is, it's feeding off your emotions. You have to be calm and cool. You can do it." He wondered if Steve could. He tried to seem sure of it, confident and composed himself, but he'd never seen Steve so rattled. There seemed to be very little left of Captain America, of the man who never wavered and led by example and stood for everything good and pure in the world. All his strength and power and steadiness had been stripped away, and he was bleeding inside.

"You have to stop me when it happens again," Steve roughly ordered. "I can't hurt anyone else. I can't. Please. I – I can't stop myself."

"Let's not worry about that right now."

"I'm scared, Clint," Steve whispered.

Hearing Steve admit that was almost too much to bear. Clint stood and grabbed the pillows and blankets. "You need to sleep," he said firmly.

Steve closed eyes ringed in darkness. "I can't."

"You have to try."

"The nightmares… I can't."

"Hey." Clint knelt in front of his friend and put his hands on Steve's shoulders. "I'll stay with you."

Steve's pained expression contorted further with dismay. "You shouldn't. It's too dangerous."

"All the times you stood by me," Clint said. "You'd walk with me to the end of the line. I'd do the same for you no matter what."

Steve's eyes widened slightly at that, and he stared at Clint like he was seeing a ghost. The hazy gleam bothered Clint terribly for a second, and he worried that Steve was sinking back into the delirium again. But he didn't. He actually smiled, a real and genuine one. It was a ghost of his normal smile, but it was something, at least. Clint felt warm and right seeing it, and he smiled, too.

He put the pillow on the bed and helped Steve lay back. He drew the blanket over the soldier's shivering body. He stood and headed to the wall panel outside and dimmed the lights. Then he returned and sat on the floor with his back to the wall next to Steve's bed so the other man could see him.

Clint reached over and grabbed Steve's hand and squeezed tight. "I've got you."

Steve didn't nod or speak. Clint watched him hang on for a few minutes, watched the tears fill his eyes again as he stared up at the ceiling. He blinked them away. A few seconds later exhaustion won out, and he fell asleep.

Clint sighed slowly and gently let his hand go. He tried to clear his own mind, knowing he should rest while he could. But he didn't. He couldn't stop the dark thoughts from tormenting him. He closed his eyes, but his own terrors were there. Steve screaming. Steve writhing in that chamber. Steve dead in his arms.

He wondered if there was any way to wake up from this nightmare.


	10. Chapter 10

**DISCLAIMER:** _Iron Man 3, The Incredible Hulk,_ _Captain America: The First Avenger,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **For those of you who are interested, I'm cross-posting my works over at AO3. A couple of you requested this, so there you are :-).

Insert some science. I hope it's right. And insert a bad guy. You knew it was coming :-P.

**UNSUSTAINABLE**

**10**

The lab was quiet, eerily so. Bruce worked alone, bathed in the light of the monitors surrounding him. Outside this halo, things were dark and seemingly distant and not quite real. The silence was deep, and in its hold he could hear minute and insignificant things like they were as loud as thunder: computer fans humming, air being forced through vents, walls creaking, fluorescent bulbs charging and rattling as electricity jolted through the halogen gas within and excited electrons and produced light. These small details were somehow incredibly distracting as he tried to focus. With the increased speed of the massive CPU clusters at Stark Industries out in California, the computers were churning through data. Still it was going unusually slowly. So he was trying to dissect the MRI and CT images more carefully while he waited, but his mind was drifting. He was tired. He was so goddamn tired.

And when his mind drifted, his gaze inevitably went with it. He looked up dazedly. Inside the cage (the cage built for him, which still didn't sit well with him no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that it was okay), Steve was sleeping. More or less. Mostly less. He'd been like this the last few hours, and any sleep he'd gotten was thanks in no small part to Clint's constant presence. The SHIELD agent hadn't left Steve's side, even though he as well looked absolutely exhausted. It was a constant battle to keep Steve calm. He hadn't been exaggerating earlier that day (was it still the same day? Bruce wasn't sure anymore) when he'd said his dreams were violent. Peace was tenuous and fleeting and easily shattered. Steve would be still and deeply asleep one second, and the next he'd be caught in the throes of a nightmare. Bruce had been trying to ignore the desperate scenes in front of him, trying not to see the other man screaming and crying and fighting against demons from his past and his nightmares. Steve's dreams seemed to bleed together, coming fast and hard and randomly, and Clint was struggling mightily to offer comfort even as the room rattled ominously around him. They were horrors from World War II, from the ice, from the Battle of New York and missions for SHIELD since then. They were miseries from his childhood.

Bruce hadn't been able to ignore those. When Steve's cries had turned from desperate orders about the war to the soft, small pleas of a child, he couldn't help but watch. The Hulk stirred within him as he heard those whimpers. They weren't entirely intelligible, a mixture of sobs and begging, but Bruce understood all too well what this was about. He knew that fear too well, that level of pain and anger. He knew it because he'd heard himself cry those same helpless cries. His father had been a monster, a real piece of work, and his twisted view of life had scarred Bruce deeply. The beatings had been bad, but that hadn't been the worst of it. It had been the hatred, the degradation, the deep-seated bruising to his soul. They were some of his worst memories, his blackest moments, the parts of his life that had led to the birth of his anger. He had started to wonder in the wake of his accident if his father hadn't been right, if some inclination to be cruel and vicious and hateful wasn't genetic. Even if his father hadn't hit him and hit his mother, would he still have turned out a slave to his rage? It was a disturbing thought.

It was even more disturbing that apparently Steve's father had beaten him, too. It was absolutely shocking that Steve had endured something like this because he'd hidden it so well. Steve had said that Dan's drug was making him recall things he hadn't thought about in years; Bruce supposed it made some sense that he might have repressed these bad memories. After all, underneath the mantle of Captain America, Steve was still human, and ignoring painful events was a tried and true defense mechanism. But it was still upsetting. It was common knowledge that Steve had been in a lot of fights as a boy and a young man; it was part of the legend of Captain America, that even before the serum Steve stood up against bullies and protected those who'd needed protection at any cost to himself. Bruce would have never imagined this sad twist to the tale. He would never have imagined that he and Steve would share this common scar, that Steve's father had abused him, that Captain America had grown out of a past that damaged. And that made his own anger mount again, and not just because someone as good as Steve Rogers had been beaten as a child, but because Steve had endured a similar hardship and come out of it so much better. Stronger, not weaker. More in control, not less. Endowed with valor and integrity and courage. It had taken something _this drastic_, some sort of insane, violent chemical process that no one could explain, to bring out Steve's demons. Bruce struggled with his all the time. He couldn't even begin to hide them.

That brought all of his dark insecurities pressing closer and closer, and the Hulk kept shifting uneasily in the back of his mind.

And he wasn't alone in his indignant shock at the horrors coming to the surface. If Clint's disgusted and angry expression was any indication, he understood, too. He offered up his comfort sympathetically and selflessly, holding Steve still when he shook so badly, murmuring solace (though Bruce was fairly certain Steve was too far gone in delirium to hear anything the SHIELD agent said), trying to get him through his nightmares to the brief periods of relative rest between them. He must have been terrified; more than once Steve's unhinged strength and new abilities broke loose and Clint ended up thrown to the floor or nearly across the room. However, he kept waving off help from those outside, standing up without so much as a wince and wiping away blood or holding his ribs, and heading back to his friend's side. He was constant and unintimidated where all of them had one time or another faltered in the face of Steve's power. Bruce found himself admiring that.

Still, after hours of this, Clint was wearing down. Even if he wouldn't admit it, it was obvious enough, and Natasha was in the room with him now. They were both sitting on the floor beside the bed, staring at Steve as he fitfully slept, silent and catching their breaths and tense with worry. Bruce watched them share a few words. He doubted Romanoff would ever be so unguarded as to visibly offer up comfort through a hug, but she was sitting as close to Clint as possible without having him in her embrace. They were taking this moment to recover, praying it would last longer than all of the moments before it. Bruce studied Steve's vitals on the monitors stationed outside the cage for a second. He sighed and went back to his work.

"Well, apparently not listening is a chronic condition around here." Tony's voice was ridiculously loud in the silence. He emerged from the shadows down the hall. He'd taken off his armor some time ago, which made it obvious he was limping a little, probably due to his still tender abdomen that had no doubt been jostled and aggravated by the day's struggles. It seemed a lifetime ago that Tony had been shot. "Pepper seems bound and determined to stay in the city. She won't go to Malibu. Something about averting a PR disaster and dealing with a rampant rumor that Captain Virginity and I are having a tiff. Over her of all things. Yeah, they're saying she's having a slice of American pie on the side. You know. And we trashed my tower over this love triangle. Apparently those assholes at TMZ are all over this, taking bets on who won. Which is freaking retarded. I won, hands down. If she wants to have a press conference, it should be about that." Tony shook his head when his jokes all fell flat. Worry lined his face. "And last I checked you can talk and text from pretty much anywhere, so having to stay on the East Coast to handle this sounds like utter BS. Is she always this stubborn?"

"Yes."

Tony grunted and came to stand beside him, wincing though not from the pain. "She also said your lab is pretty much trashed. Trashed like completely destroyed. Burned in some places even. So sorry about that."

"Doesn't matter now."

Tony's gaze settled on the scene inside the cage. "How's he doing?"

Bruce shook his head. "Not good," he answered quietly. He glanced at the monitors again, but of course nothing had improved. "His heart rate is continually elevated. Respiratory rate, as well. This thing is putting his body through hell. Super soldier or no, having what equates to a massive panic attack almost constantly for hours is dangerous. And that's not counting whatever damage Dan's drug is doing to him. Pain that severe has to mean something, and whatever it is, you can bet it's really bad."

Tony was of course concerned at that. He was doing his damnedest to seem nonchalant, but Bruce saw through it. They were all too tired for that sort of bullshit bravado to be even the least bit convincing. "Wouldn't damage have shown up on the CT or MRI?"

Bruce shrugged. "I don't know. I have no idea what we're dealing with. I looked the scans over more carefully and there's some evidence of vascular injury, but the serum must be healing it fast enough that it's not amounting to anything." _Yet,_ was his unspoken, pessimistic thought.

Tony heard what he didn't say. "And if it gets worse?"

"I don't know!" Bruce shouted. The anger always simmering inside him was abruptly boiling, and breathing through his nose was all he could do to stay in control. "Everybody is looking to me for answers, but I don't have any!"

"Whoa, calm down," Tony quickly said. He looked at Bruce warily, involuntarily stiffening. In all the time they'd spent together, the Hulk had always been so tightly under wraps. Bruce had always been so calm and collected. Mellow. Tony was scared, and rightly so. He'd already been pummeled and nearly killed by one uncontrollable Avenger that day.

But Bruce couldn't just get his anger back once it was loose. Nobody ever seemed to understand that. Still he knew it wasn't enough to push him over. Not now. Not yet. "I don't want to be calm! I want to _fix _this! I did this to him, damn it, and I need to make it right!"

He hadn't meant to say that. He'd been feeling it for days before this, ever since Dan had put a gun to Tony's head and demanded that they try his experiment on Captain America. He couldn't keep it in now. Not anymore. Somehow seeing Steve reliving his childhood horrors was the one thing that was too much. "You did this to him. Right, I forgot about that. Never mind the gun to my head and Barton's head. Never mind there was no choice. Never mind it was Lahey's idea in the first place."

"Doesn't matter," Bruce insisted. "Dan's dead. And even if you think I had no choice, I was the one in charge of the Gamma exposure, remember, because Dan couldn't figure it out. I'm just as much to blame. I screwed up, and Steve will be lucky if he dies before someone gets a hold of him and weaponizes him or worse."

"That's bleak," Tony muttered.

"You said it yourself. This is going to get to the point where we'll need to kill him to keep all of us safe."

"I was full of shit. And how do you know you screwed up? Maybe this is what was _supposed _to happen. Fate or destiny or whatever."

Bruce rolled his eyes in disparagement. "You don't believe in that nonsense."

"I didn't believe that a man could move things with his brain, either, and look at what happened." Bruce didn't want to hear this, but he had no choice but to stand there and listen. "Maybe this was the best thing that could have happened. Maybe this was the only thing that could have happened. If it hadn't, we all could have been killed. I said this before. Maybe this was the only thing that could have happened. If it hadn't, we'd all be dead. I said this before. You need to listen to me. He would have been _dead_ otherwise." Bruce ground his teeth and looked away irately. _Like dead is worse. _Tony quickly went on. "You think it's your fault. Cap thinks it's his fault for going bat-shit crazy because his brain is torturing him. It's my fault for not noticing sooner that this was happening. Barton's for not preventing them from taking him hostage and for not being around before when Steve needed. Fury's. SHIELD's. So it's all our faults. There. Done."

"Don't play this down, Tony. Please."

"I'm not. This is where we are. We've had no choice since we walked into Lahey's lab, maybe even before then. It sure as shit feels like that. But we have a choice now. We can either piss and moan about what happened, or we can try to make it better. You said it yourself: you did this to him, so you can fix it." Tony wasn't turning his own words against him to hurt him. He was just stripping the emotions away and leaving the facts. "You fixed yourself."

Bruce made a sour face. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Your anger issues. You worked through them."

"My anger issues. Last I checked, the Hulk is as dangerous as ever."

"Not from what I saw," Tony corrected. "The Other Guy could've crushed Rogers back there, but he didn't. I know he wanted to. You made him hold back." He cocked an eyebrow and leaned into the lab bench. "You ever think about measuring things not by the few times you lost control but by all the times you didn't?"

He hadn't. Not really, at any rate. To him, it was a constant struggle marked by waxing and waning restraint. To him, seconds were continually filled with anxiety and fear, and it was like a shadow over his life. He never trusted himself. What if someone pushed him too far. What if frustration got the better of him. What if he lost his temper. It was a war that never ended. There was never victory. Hell, he wasn't even sure what constituted victory. He'd been driven once to find a cure, but he'd given up that painful and fruitless quest and tried to just simply accept what he was. Maybe that was what Tony meant by working through it. And he didn't think so much, didn't worry about it so much, anymore. Not since New York. Not since the Avengers.

So he thought it about it that way, measuring by the minutes he'd been strong. He felt a little better. "Okay," he said.

"Okay," Tony agreed. "So what can I do to help?"

Bruce took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. He reached for his cup of coffee, which had long since gone cold, and took a drink. "Not much, I don't think," he answered. "It's running through the genetic analysis right now. Even with your computing cluster, it seems to be having a hard time getting it done."

"That's weird."

"Yeah, I guess so. And I've been trying to develop another sedative that won't put him down as deeply but should hopefully last longer. I don't like the stress all of this is putting on his body." Bruce looked down at the few vials spread around the lab bench. "It's the best I can do."

"Maybe we should give him some now," Tony murmured, staring unhappily into the cage ahead of them. "How long can he go on like this?" That forced Bruce to look up. Steve was coming around again. Clint was at the bedside, pulling the ailing man into his arms for comfort. Bruce could hear Steve talking. His voice was rough from misuse. Natasha came with some water. Clint helped Rogers sit up, which seemed to be a very bad idea because he immediately jolted to his feet and staggered to the toilet and threw up. Bruce closed his eyes in dismay. Tony was rigid beside him, his face tight with a disgusted wince. "Fun," he whispered.

"Bruce?" Clint called from inside the chamber. He crouched beside Rogers, an arm thrown around the other man as he heaved. The archer looked to him plaintively, his expression tense and his eyes dark with worry and a silent imploration that something be done to ease Steve's suffering. Bruce released a slow breath and grabbed one of the needles from the cart alongside the lab bench and one of the vials of his new concoction. It should have been tested more thoroughly, but he didn't think Steve could get through much more of this. He rushed to the chamber and through the clean room, filling the syringe as he went.

Steve was gasping, his face reddened. He was crumpled on the floor next to the toilet. There was dark blood dripping viscously from his nose and his ears. He didn't seem entirely with it, partially asleep perhaps, but mostly imprisoned by agony. His face was contorted and he couldn't catch his breath. But when he saw Bruce come in with the needle, his eyes widened. "No, please," he moaned.

"Steve, you need sleep," Natasha calmly insisted. "This will help."

The soldier curled in on himself. Bruce warily remained back, afraid at any moment Steve's telekinesis would break free. The last thing they needed was another violent altercation. But the other man was simply too spent and in too much pain to do anything other than tremble on the floor. Clint knelt beside him, a comforting hand rubbing Steve's uninjured shoulder, and looked up at Bruce. He nodded. Bruce tentatively came closer. He decided to simply attack, moving swiftly to stick the needle in Steve's thigh. Steve didn't fight, didn't jerk away, didn't even really seem to notice.

Natasha had gotten a washcloth from the supply closet that she wet in the sink. Carefully she knelt at Steve's head and wiped away the blood. "What's happening to him?" she asked as she worked. Steve's eyes drifted and glazed in disorientation as the sedative began to work. Bruce took his limp hand and counted his pulse. Even with the drug, his heart was still pumping at a wavering, frightening pace. "Why is he in so much pain?"

"I'm not sure," Bruce admitted.

"This is killing him," Clint softly declared. He sat back on his rear, tiredly scrubbing a hand down his face. Steve's breathing evened out slightly, but not enough to be considered calm or peaceful. His eyes didn't entirely close, bright and blue underneath the parted lids. His face was so pale underneath the darkness of the stubble covering his jaw and the heavy bags surrounding his eyes. He wasn't quite unconscious – he seemed catatonic, almost – and Bruce didn't know if that was an effect of his newly devised sedative or Steve's condition or a combination of both. He supposed he had to cut his losses and simply be happy that Steve wasn't suffering so acutely any more. They could at least take a moment to rest.

Clint didn't want to rest. "He's going to die unless we can stop it."

Bruce didn't have the heart to argue with that. "He might. I don't know."

"Hey, Banner, your analysis is done. You should come take a look." Tony's voice cut through the miserable silence.

Bruce climbed to his feet, his joints aching and his body rebelling against him. "Let's get him back into bed," he quietly ordered. The two SHIELD agents stood as well, and together the three of them managed to lift Steve's large, weighty form and move him back to the bed. Clint moved the pillow under Steve's head and Natasha draped the blanket back over his body. Both of them looked angry and frustrated and sorrowful. Bruce tried not to let any of that get to him as he tossed the used needle in the sharps container outside the cage and headed back to the main console.

Tony cocked an eyebrow at him as he approached. Even in the dim light, Bruce could see he was troubled and perplexed. "Granted this isn't exactly my field of expertise, but I'm pretty sure _that_'s not right," he said, folding his arms over his chest and backing away from the screen.

Bruce was so tired that for a moment he didn't register that he should be alarmed from Tony's words. Then his eyes focused on the results piling onto the display. "Oh, my God," he whispered.

"What?" Clint demanded as he quickly made his way around to the main console. Natasha followed, narrowing her eyes in confusion as she appraised the images. "What are we looking at?"

"Steve's DNA," Bruce supplied. Awe crept into his voice. "It's… I don't know how to describe it. It's in a state of flux."

Clint looked completely lost. When Bruce offered nothing further, he asked, "And that's bad?"

"I've never seen anything like this," Bruce murmured. His quick eyes digested the data in front of him in complete disbelief. "No wonder the analysis took so long."

"Alright, alright," Barton said. He was clearly trying to keep his frustration in check. "Explain it to us. With words we can understand."

Bruce took a deep breath and tried to gather his thoughts. His mind was racing, pouring over the discovery they'd just made, whirling with the possible explanations. It defied everything he knew about genetics and biology, _everything _he took for steadfast and immutable. It was mind-boggling. "Steve's DNA is enhanced by the super soldier serum, but it functions fundamentally the same as a normal person's. And it's identical, cell to cell to cell, just like a normal person's. At least it should be, within a statistically normal amount of random variation and mutation that can occur during the replication process, but that's a small percentage that couldn't account for–"

"Banner, English," Barton reminded with forced patience.

"His DNA is _changing_. From these readings, it looks like it's happening almost continuously. You see this chain of nucleotides? It's not here. Or here." Bruce pointed at a couple of other DNA strands graphically represented on the monitor. He swiped his fingers across the touch screen, looking through some other samples from other cells. "But it is here. The computer detected this chain in approximately 37% of the CSF cells I gave it. Other chains were less common. Others were more. This is incredible. Dan's drug is causing his DNA to mutate constantly."

Tony shook his head. "That's not possible."

"Look at it, Tony!" Bruce gasped, sharing a perplexed glance with his friend. "I have no idea if that's what it was supposed to do, but that's what it's doing." The computer had begun to identify the base-pair sequence that seemed to be the end product of the mutation. Bruce brought it up, looking over it carefully. He didn't see anything obvious about it, other than the fact it was long and complex and composed of nucleotides he'd _never seen_ _before_ (that was astounding in and of itself). He was familiar with the base-pair sequences of a few common genes, but this was far beyond anything he'd ever studied. The human genome ordered in the millions upon millions of base-pairs, with millions of variations of genes on each of the 23 chromosome pairs. The amount of mathematical variability was astounding. But this was far beyond understanding. Whatever it was, it was obviously responsible for Steve's condition. And it hadn't been there before. "This sequence seems to be whatever the end result is. It's all over his DNA in some form or another."

"What is it?" Natasha asked.

Bruce sighed. "Figuring that out is going to take a lot more analysis than this. And it's even more complicated because of the super soldier serum." At their questioning glances, Bruce went on. "The serum is a part of Steve's genetic code; that's why it's so difficult to reproduce it. Nobody really understands how the serum works. People have been studying it for years and no one's come close to mapping out how the serum has altered his DNA. It's integrated completely into his genetic material. And if Dan's serum is somehow interacting with that…" And then it occurred to him. Why Steve's DNA was shifting from moment to moment and cell to cell. Why Steve's telekinesis was so erratic and uncontrollable. Why his mental state seemed to vacillate between cognizance and madness. Why he was in so much pain. "Of course…" he breathed. How could he have been so blind? So stupid? It was so damn _obvious_. "The serum's not interacting with it. It's _fighting_ it."

Tony seemed to understand, as smart and quick as he was. His face fractured in unhappiness with the dawning realization. Clint and Natasha, however, were as lost now as they had been moments before. Bruce shook his head and tried to explain. "The super soldier serum made Steve big and strong and fast and turned him into Captain America, but it did far more than that. It's the reason he can't get sick, the reason he heals so much faster than a normal person. It's the reason he's so resilient. It's the reason he survived in the ice for seventy years." Bruce paced with nervous energy as his thoughts raced. "It's the reason he survived Dan's procedure. The serum _protects_ him. His DNA seems to be constantly rewriting itself because the serum is trying to stop Dan's drug. The drug is altering his genetic code to produce these new abilities, and the serum is altering it back. It's fighting _back_. The two aren't compatible." This went against everything Dan had hypothesized would happen. Maybe the super soldier serum had made it possible for Steve to survive the initial infusion and radiation exposure, but in the long run it wasn't making it more likely that the experiment would succeed. It was having the opposite effect. "I was right. The whole thing was fundamentally doomed to failure."

"Are you saying–"

"Dan's drug is the ultimate invading body, attacking him on a genetic level. It's the worst kind of disease. And the serum is defending him. It's like… It's–"

"It's a war," Clint said softly. His hazel eyes sharpened with sudden comprehension. He didn't look comforted by any of this. "And Steve's caught in the crossfire."

"Exactly," Bruce quickly confirmed. "The serum is trying to prevent Dan's drug from changing him. I don't know _how_ it's happening, if the Gamma exposure somehow kicked the serum into high gear, but if the serum's fighting…"

"Maybe this could end all on its own?"

It was a possibility. Unfortunately, Bruce didn't think it was very likely. He started to wonder why it had taken so long after the incident for Steve's powers to appear. He really had no data from which to form a conclusion, but it made sense that the serum _had_ been fighting this from the beginning. That explained why they hadn't seen any changes in Steve's DNA two weeks ago or any effects on his physiology or neurologic function. But that could only mean that the serum was weakening. Losing the battle. As time had worn on, it had lost ground slowly but steadily until the damage had begun to manifest itself. The nightmares and memories and migraines. And then the telekinesis.

Tony had come to the same conclusion. He looked at Natasha, unwilling perhaps to thrash her hopes, before shifting his gaze to Bruce. He was determined, but the awful reality pushed fear into his voice. "We need to find a way to help. Give the serum bigger guns. Bolster its defenses. _Something._"

Bruce was flying through the results, trying to gleam any indication of the speed at which the DNA sequence that looked to be the result of Dan's drug was appearing in Steve's cells. He had to collect more data to calculate a true transformation rate, but if Steve's deterioration over the last 24 hours was any indication, it was moving fast. "I'd love to do that," he said, trying to keep the emotion from his voice, "but there isn't enough time to figure out how."

"Well, we have to," Tony returned sharply.

"We don't know how the super soldier serum works! Do you have any idea what you're proposing? A project of that magnitude would require years, maybe even decades, of study by a team of geneticists and biochemists to even begin to figure out–"

"Steve doesn't have that long," Clint said worriedly.

Bruce shook his head. "No," he agreed. _One way or another._

Clint clenched his jaw. "Is it going to kill him?" he asked again.

Bruce sighed again, looking up at the monitors displaying Steve's vitals. The sedative had calmed the acute stress response, but not enough to alleviate his concerns. He still didn't have any answers. "It's impossible to know."

Clint let loose a short, pained breath and looked away angrily. "Get whatever data you need. Run more tests. _Do_ something," Tony snapped.

Bruce knew what was coming, and he didn't want to hear it. He knew he had a tendency to be cynical, to let his pessimism get the better of him. Hell, he thought he had a pretty compelling reason for being that way. But this wasn't being pessimistic. It was being _realistic_. "Tony, I don't even know where to start. You're asking me to isolate the super soldier serum, which no one has _ever_ successfully done, figure out how it creates cellular resistance and regeneration on a genetic level, which no one _ever _has, and, as if that's not impossible enough, figure out how a drug, which, by the way, apparently has caused DNA mutations using nucleotides that I didn't know _existed_ until now – figure out _how_ that works, and then figure out how to make the super soldier serum _defeat_ it. That's what you want. And you want me to do this as fast as possible no less. It can't be done!"

"Doctor," Natasha said quietly, trying to quell Bruce's mounting frustration, "you're the best expert we have on Doctor Erskine's work. If you can't do it…"

"I can try," Bruce said, "but you have to understand what we're up against."

"We need a miracle. Got it." Tony brushed it all aside like it wasn't impossible (which was what he always did) and started preparing the computers to run more simulations. "Let's do another lumbar puncture while he's unconscious. We need to better isolate the genetic sequence this thing is trying to create. The computer's got it at only 84% accurate at this point."

"Tony." Bruce released a slow breath. "Listen. I was worried about this before, but seeing what's going on is making me think that we haven't scratched the surface of what Steve is capable of doing."

That gave them all pause. The lab grew completely silent again. Tony dropped his hands from the touch screen and turned to face his friend. "What? Moving things with his mind wasn't serious enough?"

"I don't think he's just moving things with his mind. I think he's _controlling_ energy." The others stared at him. Tony with unabashed shock. Clint with a mixture of fear and confusion. Natasha with worry. Bruce licked his lips and wrung his hands together with his own anxiety. He'd been thinking about this for a few hours now – about the mechanics of _how _Steve was actually performing these telekinetic feats – and there wasn't an easy answer, or even a complex one he could readily accept. Bruce didn't have a lot of evidence to support what he was about propose, but he had that sinking feeling in the bottom of his chest that it was right. "I need more data. An fMRI while he's having an episode would help if I didn't think he'd probably destroy the machine before I could get any useful images."

"Controlling energy. What does that mean?" Natasha asked.

"Exactly what it sounds like. I think he can _manipulate_ energy. Thermal energy. Kinetic energy. Electromagnetic. Maybe even cosmic or nuclear."

"Whoa, whoa," Clint said, brushing his hand through the air as though to wave aside something he found disagreeable. "That sounds bad."

"I think it could be. I think it could be _very_ bad. You need to understand. There's energy in everything. On a molecular level, on an atomic level… It's the foundation of matter." Bruce closed his eyes, praying this wasn't as serious a problem as he feared. He was way too smart to be convinced by hope. "He's doing much more than just moving objects; those events are only the most noticeable of what we've seen. He bent an explosion around him and that family when the bus was hurtling toward him. He slowed the Hulk's fist by dissipating its momentum. He shorted out the Tower's arc reactor. He powered your suit, Tony. You know the amount of energy required to do something like that."

Tony winced and looked away. "Shit. You're right."

"It's tied to his emotional state, just as Dan said it would be. It's almost like an involuntary reaction. And I have no idea _how_ he's doing it. But if he survives this and somehow learns to consciously and consistently control it…"

The silence returned. It was rife with all the things they couldn't bear to think about. The consequences and ramifications and implications. Bruce thought about Ross' attempts to capture him after he'd become the Hulk. How the government had pursued him, hunted him for a chance to harness the Hulk as a weapon. How Loki had manipulated him to turn him against SHIELD. If Steve's powers stabilized, he'd be worth even more. More than Captain America and the world's only super soldier. More than Stark and all his tech and all of his genius. More than the Hulk.

And if his powers never stabilized, the danger he posed to _everyone_ was unfathomable.

Natasha's phone beeped, breaking the ominous quiet. She dug in her jacket for it and walked away from them to take the call. Clint stared morosely at Steve's sleeping body. The grief in his eyes was palpable. "We have to fix this," he said softly. "He doesn't deserve this. He's…" Clint swallowed thickly. "We have to fix this."

Tony narrowed his eyes and went back to work. "We're going to," he swore. There wasn't an ounce of doubt in his voice. It was nice to hear that confidence return, even if Bruce didn't share the sentiment. "There's an explanation for everything in some form or another. We'll find this one. The serum's combatting the damage. That means there's a chance." Bruce wasn't so sure.

Natasha returned, sliding her phone back into her pocket. She neared Clint and murmured something softly to him. Then she turned to Bruce. "There's been a development," she gravely announced.

"What sort of development?" Bruce asked.

She looked unsure for a moment, a mixture of shame and displeasure swirling in her eyes. "After the incident with Emil Blonsky in Harlem, SHIELD took Samuel Sterns into custody."

Bruce didn't like the sound of this. He hadn't spoken with Sterns since he'd fought the Abomination five years ago. He'd been in contact with Sterns off and on for most of the time he'd been on the run from Ross. Sterns (using the codename "Mr. Blue") had been working on a cure for Bruce's condition. That obviously hadn't panned out. "I wasn't aware of that." He was starting to feel trapped once more and ignorant of some things that were obviously important.

Natasha looked at him squarely. She was impossible to read. "He's not the same man he was. He came into contact with a sample of your blood that he'd been working on and… mutated."

Bruce didn't know how much more this he could take. In the last two weeks, his kind, soft-spoken colleague had turned into some sort of heartless monster and forced him to experiment on his friend. And now the man who he'd thought to be an ally was apparently a monster as well. _They come in all shapes and sizes._ He hadn't thought much about Sterns over the last few years. Their quick meeting had ended disastrously. But Sterns reminded him of Lahey. Messing with dangerous things. Driven beyond the capacity for common sense. Blinded by possibilities without regard for consequences. Twisted. "I wasn't aware of that, either."

"I was sent to arrest him. He's been in lockdown in the Fridge for the last couple of years." Natasha tipped her head slightly. "Hill said Agent Daniels called in from the Fridge an hour ago. Sterns requested to see 'Mr. Green'. He was adamant about it."

"'Mr. Green'?" Tony said. "Clever."

Bruce offered him a withering look, and Stark went back to his work. "What does this have to do with–"

"Sterns said it was about Doctor Lahey's experiment," Natasha said. A shiver tickled the small of Bruce's back. This felt wrong. Seriously so. "Sterns is in isolation. There was no way he could have learned about what happened. And that suggests–"

"That he already knew," Clint finished. "Which means he could have been involved. This guy have any connections to AIM?"

Natasha shook her head. "None that SHIELD is aware of. Like I said, he's been in lockdown for the last couple of years. Planning something at all, let alone something this complicated, would have been damn near impossible; he has had no contact with the outside world." She looked evenly at Bruce again. "This is the best lead we've had."

Bruce closed his eyes and tipped his head back. _Damn it._ "How long will it take to get to this Fridge place?"

Natasha shrugged slightly. "By jet? About four hours."

_Four hours there. Four hours back. And however long it takes to see what Sterns wants. _"And SHIELD won't move him from there?"

"I doubt it," Natasha said, "especially since as far as SHIELD is concerned this incident with the Cap isn't happening. It'll be easier for us to go to him."

There wasn't much choice. If Sterns knew something, _anything_, about what Dan's drug had done to Steve, it needed to be explored. That had a much better chance of providing useful information than aimlessly running tests. Still, he didn't want to go; if Steve took a turn for the worst, the others would need him here. _There isn't much choice._ "Alright. There's enough of the sedative to last for twelve hours or so. Keep him unconscious as much as possible. It's the safest course right now."

Clint didn't seem pleased. He looked at Steve again, frowning at the prospect of sedating him for the foreseeable future. But he nodded. It was like a damn mantra. _No choice._

Natasha quickly found the keys to the SHIELD SUV. "I'll go with you, Bruce."

Bruce nodded. "Let's hurry."

* * *

The Fridge was apparently one of the best kept secrets of SHIELD. Bruce got the distinct impression as they rendezvoused with the helicarrier off the coast of New Jersey that not many of even its higher level agents knew what it was, let alone where it was. Only Agents Hill and Romanoff accompanied him in the quinjet as it took off from the flight deck of the helicarrier. They didn't speak much, neither to each other nor to him, and he realized that what was happening was perhaps not by the books. He highly doubted civilians were normally permitted near such a top-secret installation, which no doubt meant Fury had his hands in this to make it possible. Bruce didn't know whether to be relieved or worried. He settled on worried.

As the quinjet cut through the early light of dawn, he did his part. He didn't pay attention to where they were going, didn't glance at the flight instruments or the GPS maps or even out the windows. Instead he focused on the pad in his hand, looking over the MRI scans and genetic results again. He was beginning to realize that what he'd suspected before was true: there was damage occurring in Steve's brain. It was diffuse and not overly noticeable, but when he carefully compared the recent scans from those taken right after the experiment, he could see it. It was more prominent in the cerebal cortex and limbic system, particularly in and around the amygdala. It made sense; if Steve's emotions were involved with or otherwise triggering his powers, changes in those areas should be evident. He suspected if they did another MRI the damage would be even more noticeable, despite the efforts of the super soldier serum to contain and correct it. He didn't want to say as much to the others, but he didn't think this would be a battle the serum could win.

Tony was sending Steve's vitals to him in a continuous stream on his tablet. For the moment, everything looked stable. Tony was also rerunning the genetic analysis and getting JARVIS to help him better identify the sequence Dan's drug was trying to produce. Bruce was providing his input through text messages, trying to be helpful even if he still believed these efforts would be in vain. At the very least it was something to keep him busy. They'd added a few hundred more nucleotides to the sequence with relatively high confidence. It hadn't brought them much closer to understanding anything, and when he saw what he assumed to be the Fridge growing closer through the quinjet's windshield, he abandoned his work.

He stood and leaned into the cockpit. "Is that it?"

"Yeah," Natasha answered.

Bruce was amazed and disturbed at once (which sadly seemed to be a common reaction of late). Across the shining ocean stood a tower that glimmered like a spike of steel, silver, and glass in the sun. It looked to be at least a hundred stories tall, its shadow looming over the pearly beach behind it as the morning light struck its sleek and smooth surfaces. It was forbidding, huge and imposing and threatening. The jet cut through the wisps of clouds hanging over the ocean, approaching its destination in a wide arc. Bruce watched the Fridge grow larger and larger, hearing Natasha communicate with the agents inside the tower as she prepared to land. The quinjet shuddered slightly as the powerful jet engines throttled back and then turned off, trading propulsion to the twin rotors in each wing. They hovered above the landing pad at the top of the tower for a second or two before the jet set down and the rear ramp opened.

Bruce waited for Hill and Romanoff, and the three of them headed out into the morning sun. The air was warm with summer and smelled strongly of the sea. Bruce followed behind the two SHIELD agents as they made their way across the landing pad to the glass doors. They walked with confidence and poise, so much so that Bruce felt even more out of place and uncertain of himself. Natasha glanced over her shoulder at him, the wind kicking up her fiery red hair. Her eyes were stern, perhaps imploring him to be less obviously anxious or maybe demanding that he keep quiet. He would try to do both.

The doors were guarded by two heavily armed soldiers. Upon seeing Hill, one of them commanded, "State your name and position for access."

"Deputy Director Maria Hill," Hill declared.

"Agent Natasha Romanoff," Natasha added.

Bruce wasn't sure if he should speak, so he didn't. The guards checked a panel inside the room. "Bruce Banner is not cleared for entrance," the same one declared.

"Director Fury has cleared him." At that, Hill turned a pad so that its face was visible to the guards and shoved it to the doors. The soldiers looked over the orders for a long moment, during which Bruce had to do everything in his power not to squirm or fidget. Apparently whatever the man read was satisfactory because he nodded, deactivated the locking mechanisms, and the doors opened.

Bruce followed Hill and Natasha across the short lobby into the elevator. One of the guards accompanied them, and Bruce immediately realized why when he flashed an access card to the control panel of the lift. He swept his fingers over the touch screen. "That'll be all, soldier," Hill said with half a smile, and she nudged him out of the door before the elevator car smoothly began to descend.

It didn't seem that way, but Bruce could tell they were moving extremely quickly down through the Fridge. Natasha turned to him, her hands clasped in front of her. "Sterns is an unknown. SHIELD hasn't been able to discern the extent of what his mutation has done to him. He's been rather resistant to testing. But he's manipulative and cunning. We consider him extremely dangerous."

"You should," Bruce agreed. "He was experimenting with my blood. He wanted to refine the process that created the Hulk. He claimed it was for good intentions, but I don't think so."

"Seems to be a theme of late," Hill muttered disdainfully. "Doctor Banner, whatever he wants, you need to keep information about Captain Rogers quiet. As impossible as it seems, Sterns _must_ have some connection to his co-conspirators outside the Fridge. Fury has been pouring over records of who he's had contact with, if information about what happened to you guys could have _possibly_ found its way here, but he hasn't come up with anything yet. That means if there's a mole, he's still here. So no specifics."

Bruce didn't like the sound of this. It reminded him too much of the last time he'd talked to Dan. That had also ended disastrously. He'd never know for sure what had driven Dan to suicide. The drug he'd been testing on himself? The guilt over what he'd done? Bruce, who was maybe the closest thing Dan had ever had to a friend, disclaiming any part of his so-called science? Or was it just desperation and rage that the fruits of his labor and dreams had been denied to him?

God, he was tired of science being wielded like a weapon.

The elevator reached its destination. Hill stepped out first. Natasha held back a moment. She looked at Bruce, and even though her face was as stoic as always, he knew exactly what she was about to say. "There are a lot of… dangerous things down here. Just keep that in the back of your head, okay?"

_Dangerous things. Am I the most dangerous of them all?_ Had things gone differently, he could have ended up another specimen locked away in SHIELD's vaults. He tried not to think about that as they walked the beige corridors, passing offices and lab rooms and detention blocks. It was impossible to discern what many of the rooms contained from the outside as they were locked by thick, steel doors and unlabeled. It was to one of these rooms that Hill and Natasha led him. The Deputy Director nodded to the guards stationed outside, and they flashed their badges to the door panel before the biometric scanner verified their identities. Locks that sounded heavy and unbreakable disengaged from the door, and one of the guards opened it.

Samuel Sterns sat at a gray table. He wore a tan jumpsuit, obviously some sort of prison attire, and his hands were cuffed before him. Part of him looked as Bruce remembered: small and wild in the eyes and just a tad unhinged. A long, unimposing face with a hooked nose and small chin. Small brown eyes that were too quick to think and even quicker to judge. They were brighter now. And the distended mass off the side of Sterns' head was downright disturbing. It was flesh and bone (at least, it looked like it was), but it appeared as though his brain was morphing and pulsing beneath it. A good deal of his short brown hair was missing. His skin had a slightly green tinge to it, a hue that spoke of sickness. When those brown eyes fell to Bruce, a hideous smile stretched across his face. "Mr. Green," Sterns said. "How nice to see you again."

The door closed behind Bruce as he and the two SHIELD agents walked closer to Sterns. Bruce pulled his eyes off the disgusting growth on Stern's head. "Nice to see you, too," Bruce calmly answered.

"And Agents Hill and Romanoff," Sterns said, flicking that encompassing gaze to the two women. He didn't seem at all surprised by their presence. "How nice of Director Fury to send me some eye candy. It gets a little dry in here, if you know what I mean."

Neither of the SHIELD agents so much as blinked at that. Hill stepped closer, folding her arms across her breasts. "You wanted to see Doctor Banner," she said. "Let's get this over with."

Sterns turned his gaze back to Bruce. It was… _unsettling_. There was such depth to his eyes, depth that Bruce couldn't recall from the last time he'd seen Sterns. Sterns seemed to read his mind. "Like my new look, Bruce?" He shrugged a little. "Takes a little getting used to, I admit. It's not as awe-inspiring as yours. Apparently it doesn't wear off, either."

"What do you want?" Bruce asked.

Sterns folded his hands together. "Nothing much, as it turns out," he said. "Mostly I just wanted to know how you were doing. If you're still in denial." Sterns' face tightened a bit, and he winced ever so slightly. "If you're still trying to tell yourself that it was wrong."

He wasn't sure to what Sterns was referring. "We're not here to talk about me," Bruce coldly reminded. He wasn't about to be goaded again. "You knew what Dan Lahey was up to. How?"

Sterns pursed his lips slightly. The mass on his head visibly shifted. It was revolting and frightening and it took a good deal of Bruce's will to get his eyes back on the other's man face instead of his grotesquely misshapen head. "Well, I'll tell you. I knew because I had a small hand in setting it up."

That confirmed their suspicions but did _nothing_ to explain the details. "You've been in isolation for months, Sterns," Natasha said stiffly. "How did you get in contact with AIM? Who's moving information in and out of here for you?"

"People here and there," Sterns answered. "I'd name them, but I don't think we have all day." Hill's face loosened just a bit in alarm, and she shared a tiny, unnerved look with Natasha. "You know, given the right set of circumstances, the right chain of events occurring at the exact right time, things become disturbingly predictable. Like a pathetic man desperate to prove himself. I've been that man, you know. So have you."

"Don't think you know me," Bruce coldly warned. "You don't."

"I know if you stick a pyromaniac in a room full of fuel and matches eventually you're going to get a really awesome explosion."

"So you gave Lahey the fuel and matches," Hill surmised. "Why? How?"

"Let's just say my reach has significantly improved of late," Sterns explained. He rubbed his finger over the smooth surface of the table. "You find all sorts of willing accomplices open to persuasion. Miss Hansen, for instance. Mr. Killian. Others in AIM. People at NIH. You know what they all had in common?"

"They were crazy," Bruce lowly said.

"Yes," Sterns agreed simply, "and they wanted to use science to gain power. Power is everything."

Bruce nodded toward the growth on Sterns' head. "You think that's power?"

"Oh, I don't think anything anymore," Sterns answered. "I _know_ things. I know _everything_. I see things play out before my eyes minutes and hours and days and weeks before they actually do it. An infinite collection of coincidences and happenstances, all so malleable if you can just get your fingers in there… Like pawns on a chessboard."

"Cliché," Bruce said. "And I suppose you're going to tell me you're God?"

"You said it."

"How did you know what Lahey's experiment would do?"

"You're not the only expert on Gamma radiation out there, Bruce. Before I took up my current residence here in prison, he and I had some contact. He sent me some data, and I tried to help him along. I figured he needed more than just my advice or even your advice. He needed the right situation. I realized after our own fateful meeting that I could create that for him."

"The right situation," Bruce repeated. "You mean the right test subject."

"Come on," Sterns said. "You know how important it is to have the best possible data. When you're trying to create a man who's better than what he was, more powerful than _anyone_ can fathom, you gotta start with the greatest chance of success that you have. Our dear Doctor Erskine taught us that. He was a true pioneer in human experimentation."

That hurt more than it should have. "Cut the crap," Hill warned. She glared icily at Sterns. "We know you somehow figured out Captain Rogers was being sent to investigate Lahey."

"Somehow figured out? My dear Agent Hill, _I'm_ the one who sent him there." Bruce's heart stopped for a painful second. "Like I said, pawns on a chessboard. Drop the bread crumbs here and there so SHIELD gets suspicious. A coincidental money trail, the elaboration of someone who wants to be discovered. Contact with some disreputables in the Balkans, brawn to provide protection for the brains. Lahey's seemingly random email to you, Bruce, after years of silence. Not random at all. And you Avengers are all so self-righteous. Capturing both you and Rogers would have been impossible, but luring you into a trap was all too easy. And playing you and your care for each other and your friends was the easiest part of all. You never had any choice. I calculated the seemingly infinite probabilities of each conceivable outcome and adjusted the events until the one I wanted occurred exactly as I wanted it to. And now it has. Marvelous what he can do, isn't it? More powerful than even you."

"You son of a bitch," Bruce snarled. "A man's suffering because of you. He could die."

Sterns smiled smugly. "He won't. How's the battle between Erskine's serum and Lahey's serum going, by the way? Tables turned for the bad guys yet?" Bruce could hardly believe what he was hearing. There was simply _no way_ Sterns could know _any of this._ The data was only hours old, and only the Avengers were aware of it. Unless SHIELD was full of more leaks than a rusted out ship. But Bruce didn't think so. There was something else going on here. Something far more dangerous and sinister than SHIELD being compromised with double agents. Even worse than a desperate scientist willing to do anything and hurt anyone to make his experiment succeed.

Sterns' grin was revolting. "Here's the thing I like best about Lahey's little drug. It really gets down into a man's mind. Rips him wide open until he bleeds all of his darkest memories and nightmares out of him. All that really awful stuff that drives people into doing truly awful things. Ambitions and insecurities and hatred. You know what I'm talking about." Bruce stiffened. "What kind of demons does Captain America have? Huh?"

Natasha was across the table in a flash of black and red. Her hand was around Sterns' throat, squeezing hard enough to restrict his airway and cause him pain but not enough to kill him. "How do we fix it?" she demanded, her face looming over his. Bruce looked nervously at Hill, but her cold glare was settled firmly on Sterns as Black Widow choked him. She didn't move at all. "How do we save him?"

"Save him?" Sterns gasped with half a laugh. "This isn't going to be about saving him. This isn't even going to about stopping him." He gurgled as Natasha squeezed tighter. "It's going to be about controlling him."

"How?" Hill demanded. Sterns fought for breath, reddening as he stared at Natasha. Natasha let him suffer a moment more, her expression a wrathful glower. But then her face unexpectedly softened. Her eyes widened into something of a vacant glaze, and she released him.

For a moment, no one moved. Curious and more than a little concerned, Bruce glanced between Romanoff and Sterns. The scientist panted, trying to catch his wind. Eventually he wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth. "You know," he began nonchalantly, as though he hadn't nearly been strangled to death mere seconds before, "when things get pulled out of the shadows, it's really hard to put them back. So much anger and fear. So much pain. I know yours is right near the surface, Bruce. Like a vein throbbing just beneath the skin. Nick it, and out it comes in a flood. But Captain America…" He shook his head. "He's different. He always has been. Better than all of us. Perfect when you really think about it. He's got everything so under control. Nothing bothers him. Nothing hurts him. He takes everything life throws at him and keeps going. Makes you wonder how anyone could be that strong, that stable, doesn't it?" Sterns pursed his lips again and shrugged a little, the handcuffs rattling against the table. "Of course, we both know it really can't be that way. Everyone has a breaking point, even him. Eventually even he'll do anything to make the pain stop." That was a threat. It was dripping in certainty, in cruelty. Sterns smiled a taunting smile. "That much good… It's unsustainable."

Bruce's eyes widened. Ice drove into his heart, ice that quickly melted when his anger rose within him. Hill was coming closer, prepared to question or intimidate or interrogate him further, but there was no point. "We need to go," he said to the SHIELD agents. They looked at each other and then at him in anger and frustration. He wasn't about to be dissuaded.

Sterns' face fell in mock disappointment. "So soon? We were just getting started." He smiled again. He was so proud of himself. "But I suppose you're right. It's not smart to leave Captain Rogers alone. Never know what might happen. At least _you_ don't."

_Oh, God._ "Now. Let's go."

"Hold on–"

Bruce grabbed Natasha's arm, his eyes glowing green. "Now!"

The door slammed shut and they were out in the hall. "What the hell, Banner? He knows _everything!_ Who he's working with. Why. We need to get back in there and get him to talk!" Natasha yelled.

"It's too late! We need to go. We need to get back to the others!" Bruce shouted as he began running back down the hall toward the elevator.

"Bruce, wait! What is it?"

He whirled sharply on them, his eyes blazing and terror tightly clenching his gut. "Don't you get it?" he snapped. Both of them recoiled slightly. "I don't know how he did it, if he can see the future or what, but he planned this whole thing from the start! Dan getting that grant from NIH. Dan contacting me. SHIELD sending Steve in. Tony getting shot and Dan forcing me to cooperate. Sterns planned everything so that Dan's experiment would succeed! This was never about anything other than power!"

"Power?" Hill shook her head. "He's stuck in a cell out here in the middle of nowhere! What can he do?"

_Everything._ Bruce could barely stand to breathe. "This was a trap," he said. "A trap to get me away." _God. _"A trap to divide us. Expose us." _How could he know? How? How does he know so much?_

_How could I have been so stupid?_

"What? What's happening?" Natasha gasped.

There was no choice. Nothing they could do. Nothing left but panic. "AIM is going to kidnap Steve," Bruce softly said, "and we're not there to stop it."


	11. Chapter 11

**DISCLAIMER:** _Iron Man 3, The Incredible Hulk,_ _Captain America: The First Avenger,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Thank you all so much for the support on the last chapter! You guys are really awesome :-). Well, unfortunately, things are about to get worse again. They're coming out of the wood work now. Please enjoy!

**UNSUSTAINABLE**

**11**

Things seemed to be okay. Rogers was sleeping, really sleeping, and he had been for the last few hours. Barton was dozing on the floor beside his bed, having grabbed another pillow from the supply closet maybe an hour ago when he'd finally convinced himself that Steve was alright for the time being. Tony was keeping an eye on the both of them, on Steve's thankfully steady vital signs, on Clint to make sure Steve stayed calmly unconscious and was therefore not a threat. He was pretty damn tired. This lab had a decently sized kitchen that was stocked with non-perishables, coffee included, and he'd been living off the stuff since Bruce and Romanoff had left. He preferred energy drinks to this cheap swill SHIELD had purchased (and he preferred to not be sitting in complete and utter silence), but there wasn't much to be done for it. Steve was peaceful (maybe for the first time in _weeks_) and Clint deserved to rest.

So he sat at the console outside the cage, drinking the disgusting coffee, jittering, trying to keep himself awake. Normally he could go for quite some time without sleep; it was perhaps Pepper's least favorite of his many awesome attributes (she called it insomnia but he preferred to think of it as immunity to exhaustion). He got some of his best ideas when he was high on sugar and caffeine and practically punch-drunk with fatigue. But this stuff on which he was working was all fairly beyond him. He knew some things about biochemical engineering (okay, more than most. Enough to have repaired Extremis to save Pepper), but this required a level of expertise and understanding that he didn't possess. And Bruce had gone silent in their texting about half an hour ago, so without his guidance Tony was at a bit of a loss. He had spent some time installing JARVIS onto the computer system in the lab. SHIELD's security protocols were fairly substantial, but these were outdated compared to the ones he'd hacked on helicarrier a year and a half ago so he defeated them without much effort. Still, the technology here was archaic compared to what he had all around the Tower, and actually having to type with a keyboard was trying his patience.

And it was so damn quiet. Every creak and moan this place made was ridiculously loud. Tony knew he was getting a little jumpy, but the slightest noise startled him, and he found himself continuously looking over his shoulder and peering into the shadows. He wasn't too keen on being left to man the fort, so to speak, and having to do it essentially alone. This place was too big but still so claustrophobic and sort of scary when he was the only one awake in it.

"Your analysis has finished, sir," JARVIS announced, drawing Tony's wayward attention.

"Bravo," Tony muttered. He blinked a few times to clear his vision and squinted at the obnoxiously bright screens in front of him.

"If you are bothered by the dark, you should turn on some lights," JARVIS calmly reminded him. The knowing tone in the AI's voice was grating to say the least.

"And risk waking Rogers? Don't think so."

"The bioscanners indicate Captain Rogers is in deep REM sleep. I doubt increasing the illumination would disturb him."

Tony wasn't about to take the chance. By whatever grace of good luck, Steve was well and truly out. They hadn't even had to dose him again on Bruce's wonder drug (and Tony would like to keep it that way because he frankly didn't know how he and Clint would manage that if Steve put up a fight). "I'm fine," he muttered as he started looking over the analysis. He'd rerun some of Bruce's genetic tests on the rest of the sample of cerebral-spinal fluid they'd gathered from Steve earlier. He would have preferred to take a new sample, but that was frankly out of the question. "When did we do that lumbar puncture? A few hours ago?"

"More like seven hours ago," JARVIS corrected.

"Huh." This wasn't what Tony had expected to see. "Is it just me, or is he getting better?"

That was certainly what it seemed like. "If you define 'getting better' as a reduced transformation of his DNA, then yes, I would have to agree. According to these results, the mutation rate has dropped significantly. Before nearly 77% of the sample showed cells containing some portion of the new DNA sequence. That has decreased to below 50%."

"49.3%," Tony mused. "What the hell?"

"In addition, those cells with the new sequence are not expressing it as fully as they were before. I am detecting fewer completed chains. It would follow that RNA and proteins resulting from the sequence are likely decreasing in frequency as well."

Tony couldn't believe this. "It has to be the super soldier serum," he murmured, rubbing his fingers over his goatee before bracing his fist against his chin in thought.

"Perhaps. Or Doctor Lahey's drug is not stable. Without knowing more about how the serum might be attacking the drug, there is no way to be certain." If this sample matched what was going on in Steve's body right now, if the serum was fighting back, then that could explain why he had been so calm for the last few hours. Maybe he was sleeping a healing sleep. That thought was too alluring to ignore, and he was getting ahead of himself. He swore JARVIS could read his mind sometimes. The AI was quick to call him out on his premature conclusions (and the hope that was immediately and inevitably stemming from them). "Far be it for me to rain on your parade, but I am obligated to inform you that this is likely a statistical outlier. We require a significantly larger number of samples over a sufficiently long time period to prove with reasonable confidence that this reduction is outside the normal fluctuations within the distribution. Also, if, as Doctor Banner has hypothesized, the super solder serum is 'at war' with Doctor Lahey's drug, winning a battle or two does not necessarily indicate long-term victory."

"No," Tony tightly responded, "but it's something. It means there's a chance, like I said before. It means he's fighting." JARVIS paused for a second, likely trying to determine how to let Tony down gently. Tony didn't care. "We gotta find a way to boost the serum. Kick in the butt and get it going. Fire it up. Rally the troops, so to speak, because this says to me the serum can _beat_ this in the end. It can protect him, get this poisonous shit out of his head. It can write Steve's DNA back to way it was and turn him back into the humorless asshat we all know and love. Crazy is definitely not a good look on him." He felt bad saying that. Inexplicably guilty. But he went on. He was babbling. He tended to do that when he was tired (and when he was excited, and right now he was both). His mind was racing, blasting through the fog of exhaustion. He brought up his chat window with Bruce. "We need a catalyst," he said as he typed. "Something to move this along."

"Sir, need I remind you that throwing more fuel on a fire typically creates the opposite effect of what you are looking to achieve? Furthermore, this is not the first time Captain Rogers' has seemingly gotten better. He himself said that when he was out with Miss Potts yesterday, his pain was much improved. It was not until the telekinesis began to manifest itself that his situation so rapidly degraded. That was the proverbial calm before the storm. There is no reason to think this is anything different."

"God, you're as much of a pisser as Banner. Were you always this pessimistic or has he been rubbing off on you?" Tony snapped. His patience was wearing extremely thin. It wasn't just that he couldn't accept there might be something beyond their (beyond _his_) capability of fixing. It wasn't just that, although that was certainly part of it. In some twisted sense, the super soldier serum was part of his father's legacy. Howard Stark had been the first to bombard Steve Rogers with radiation to spurn an amazing chemical process in his body. Tony refused to believe that the serum his father had helped to create and the transformation he'd helped to achieve during Project: Rebirth were beyond repair. Tony refused to believe _anything_ designed and crafted and built by Stark Industries was beyond repair. He didn't know how he felt about his father some (well, _most_) of the time, but he was damn sure the man had been a genius. He wouldn't have created something that had flaws or could be beat. And Tony was Howard Stark's son, and Howard Stark had been Captain America's ally. Steve's friend. Somehow that was starting to mean a lot more to him now than it ever had before.

This wasn't goddamn fair. Granted he and Rogers didn't get along, but this whole thing had been a raw deal from the get-go. No matter the animosity between them, Tony didn't want to see Steve hurt. He didn't want to see Steve becoming some sort of victim, suffering with pain that couldn't be controlled and nightmares that drove him to puke his guts out. And he definitely _did not want to see_ Captain America turned into some sort of madman, lashing out mindlessly like a monster with every bit of his strength and resilience twisted against him and all of his valor and compassion burned away by the poison in his body. The world would be truly screwed, completely off-kilter and tilted and distorted beyond recognition, the day Captain America was made into a weapon against the people he'd sworn to protect.

There was no way to know for sure that that was where this was headed, but Tony was afraid. He was terrified, more so of that than even of Steve dying. He couldn't let that happen, and he couldn't let Steve die, not if he could stop it. And he was getting damn tired of being told it was inevitable. Maybe it was. Maybe there was nothing they could do (he'd told Bruce that, after all, that this wasn't their fault because there'd been no way to stop it), but he didn't really believe that. Tony was stubborn, and he wasn't going to submit.

JARVIS had been quiet for a moment. "I do not think Doctor Banner is pessimistic," the AI finally declared in a soft, almost tender tone. "He simply knows the limits of science. And he more than anyone is familiar with the pain of being turned into something you are not against your will." Tony winced at that, and the heat of his anger and exhilaration faded as quickly as it had come. He looked into the chamber, watching Steve's chest rise and fall slowly and evenly as he slept. His face was lax and serene, still so pale and there was dried blood that Natasha had missed earlier caked behind his ear. He couldn't help but think of that face glowering at him, of those bright blue eyes filled with rage and fear and pain and a need to _hurt_ someone else. A hand clenched around his throat. Iron Man hovering before Pepper, prepared to fire. That twist of a smile on Steve's lips. There was a monster inside of Captain America being built of dark things and the chemicals killing his soul and the fire scorching his mind, and the thought of that getting free… "But if you have an idea for an appropriate catalyst that can boost the effects of the super soldier serum without killing him, then of course I am willing to hear it."

He didn't. But he didn't get much of a chance to think about it. "What was that?"

"What was what, sir?"

The vibration he'd felt a second before came again. It was subtle, a low, rumble against his feet where they were planted on the concrete floor. It rattled up the stool upon which he was sitting, uncomfortably tickling his pelvis and abdomen. He winced. It didn't last more than a second. He looked around but there were only the same shadows draped over the same desks and workstations and rooms and hallways. He was as alone as he had been the entire time he'd been out there. Tony's heart started to pound as he strained his senses and watched and listened, but there was nothing. No movement. No sound. Nothing different. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and a cold sweat broke out across his skin. He was pretty goddamn sure he hadn't imagined it. He looked back at Steve and Clint, but they were both still sleeping. "J, you have access to the security feeds?"

"Not yet. I am having difficulty bypassing SHIELD protocols," the AI admitted.

The room rattled again. This time he was positively certain it was real. And it lasted longer, long enough that he could hear the light fixtures rattle overhead. He swallowed his thundering heart back into his chest. "Get the lights on." Bright, glaring illumination flooded through the room. The sudden change made Tony wince as his headache ramped up. He whirled around, looking frantically, but there was still nothing. Once more the huge lab room grumbled, the floor vibrating under his feet. This time it was enough to disturb Clint, and the archer groaned and rolled to his side. One of the tablet computers rattled off the desk and hit the floor and shattered. "Oh, shit," he whispered. "Is this Rogers?"

"I do not believe so. He is still asleep."

"Is he dreaming?"

"Sir, your connection to Doctor Banner."

Tony whirled and brought the text message up on his screen. _"AIM is coming,"_ it said. _"Get Steve out of there."_

_Oh, hell._ "JARVIS, get the suit ready!" Tony didn't wait for a response. He grabbed Bruce's sedative and a syringe and ran around the console. He burst through the clean room, impatiently waiting for the airlocks to seal behind him, and staggered into the cage. "Barton! Clint! Get up!"

That snapped Clint to awareness. He jumped to his feet, unsteady at first with a grimace tight upon his face. He was too well-trained as a spy, a soldier, and a killer to be fazed for more than a second, though. "What? What's wrong?"

"AIM's coming," Tony answered. He clumsily loaded the syringe with the sedative. "We have to get Steve out of here. Now."

Clint's eyes widened. "How the hell did they find us? No one knows we're here!"

"Ask your boss," Tony sharply answered.

"Banner and Romanoff?"

"Not back yet."

"Shit." Clint looked around when that awful rattled resounded again. He recognized what it was immediately. He turned his eyes to the ceiling. "They're cutting through the doors upstairs."

Tony was shocked he'd been too dumb to figure that out. The doors were built into the side of a mountain, fairly well-hidden. There was a lobby beyond them complete with a security checkpoint and a few offices and hallways, but the elevator down was the only thing that truly mattered. He wasn't sure how deep underground they were (at least a hundred feet, if not more). "Is there only the one way out of here?"

Clint was tense and frustrated, though he was doing his best not to show it. "I don't know. I haven't been here before."

"Well, that's a pretty big problem! We can't go up if they're coming down!" Clint's expression tightened in anger. He reached for his sidearm and made certain it was loaded. "JARVIS!" Tony yelled. "Tell me there's another way up!"

"I have no access to–"

The power went out. They were left reeling in utter pitch blackness for what felt to be an eternity of rushed breaths and pounding hearts and terror. Then the emergency lights switched on, flooding the lab with red. The computers were all dark. And without the computers, they had no access to JARVIS.

Clint was across the room in a breath, reaching for the door to the clean room. It wouldn't budge. "Damn it," he breathed, pulling harder though they both knew it was useless. Without power, the cage had gone automatically into lockdown. It was probably a failsafe mechanism to keep whatever monsters and hazards the lab was meant to store in containment. Now it had effectively trapped them.

This was very bad.

Clint growled in irritation and drew his gun. He fired two shots into the glass observation window between them and the lab outside, but the bullets smashed into the surface uselessly. "Pretty sure Hulk-proof implies bulletproof," Tony said tightly.

"Was worth a shot," Clint answered just as tightly. "No Iron Man?"

"Out there." Tony tipped his head to the scarcely illumination lab beyond.

"Fantastic." Clint's quick eyes scanned around them, looking for some other escape point, but there were none. There were no vents, no seams in the ceiling or between the ceiling and the wall, nothing along the floor. There was no way out. Of course there wouldn't be. He turned to Tony. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Keeping him under," Tony replied as he fumbled with the syringe. He knelt by Steve's side and tapped the air from the needle before pulling the blanket back from the soldier's upper body.

"Don't," Clint warned. "We might need him."

"We can't control him!"

"He's the only weapon we've got." To hear Clint talk about his friend like made Tony's heart thunder in panic. The SHIELD agent was right. All they had inside this cage was one handgun and Steve and a silent prayer that he'd be conscious and aware enough to direct his powers toward their attackers and not them. He set the needle aside and hoped they weren't making a costly mistake. Injecting Steve later when he was awake would be difficult.

In the quiet seconds that followed, Tony could hear distant clangs and bangs and thuds. "They're coming down the elevator shaft," Clint quietly said.

Tony watched Clint as he listened. He had to defer to Clint's knowledge here; the man was a master assassin, a black ops soldier, an expert marksman whose senses were honed by years of practice and talent, and therefore he was far better equipped to contend with a situation like this than Tony was. Tony felt blind and completely naked without his tech. "How many?" he asked softly. He didn't know why they were whispering, but it suddenly felt like they were hiding.

"I'm not sure. A lot." Tony gritted his teeth. The air recyclers had gone down with the power, and the room was quickly becoming hot and stuffy. His heart pounding so sharply against his skull wasn't helping matters. "We need to wake him," Clint said, looking down at Steve who was still sleeping through all of this.

Tony had no idea if that was wise or just plain lunacy. He didn't even know if they _could_ wake Steve, given they had no idea how deeply asleep he was. Bruce's sedative should be wearing off soon, he thought, and they had to do it eventually. And there was no way to tell how useful Steve would be to them, considering the last time he'd been awake he'd been too weak and sick to do much else other than throw up and pass out. Still it seemed like a good idea to try now. At least this way they had an opportunity to talk some sense into him, keep him calm and grounded enough to try and focus his mind before all hell broke loose. There wasn't much point in debating it, at any rate. As soon as their attackers got through the elevator doors on the other side of the lab, their options to avoid being captured or killed would rapidly dwindle to nothing.

Clint pulled the blanket away entirely. Tony leaned over Steve's upper body and rolled him onto his back. He was completely limp, boneless almost, and it was a far cry from the tension that had dominated his form for hours before. That didn't bode well for their chances of rousing him. "Steve," Tony called. He shook the soldier slightly, but that did nothing. "Cap. Rogers! Wake up!" As hard as he could he knuckled Rogers' sternum, jabbing his fingers painfully into the wall of smooth skin and solid muscle, but he still got nowhere. He patted his cheek, softly at first but then more insistently and with greater force. Steve slumbered on.

A few loud bangs echoed through the silent lab. "They're at the doors," Clint hissed. "Hurry!"

"I'm trying, damn it!" Frustrated and panicking more by the second, Tony abandoned all pretenses of being gentle or quiet about this. "Steve! Come on! Wake up now! Right now! _Wake up!_" He slapped Steve across the face. Hard.

That did it, but not in a good way. Steve's eyes snapped open and his hand caught Tony's. Tony cried out in pain as Steve's fingers, as strong and as hard as steel, closed around his wrist and squeezed. He could feel his bones grinding together. "Steve! No!" Clint shouted, and he grabbed Steve's hand and pulled him back. "Let him go!"

It didn't seem like Steve would. His eyes glowed with that madness again – and Tony realized in a split second of heart-shattering regret that hitting him had been a monumentally _stupid_ idea – before it faded back into a confused, hurt fog. Steve released him, and that shaking immediately returned to his body. "Sorry," he whispered. His face crumpled into a wince. All the energy seemed to depart him with one shuddering sigh, and he closed his eyes again.

"No," Clint said quickly. "No. Stay awake. Look at me. We're in trouble."

"Let me sleep," he moaned. "Hurts."

"No!" Tony snapped. "Didn't you hear Clint? We're in trouble! There are men coming to take you!" Those taut words were enough to get through to him. He recoiled from them, moving away from Clint's hold on his arm, and sat up more fully. He groaned through his teeth and leaned into the wall.

Clint refused to be pushed aside, setting his hands on Steve's shoulders and pulling him back. Steve was shaking them both he was trembling so badly. He was frightened. The archer took his friend's face into his hands and stared into his feverishly glowing eyes. "Listen," he said softly, "we're not going to let that happen. I promise you. But you need to help us." Another loud bang reverberated through the lab. Steve jerked in Clint's hold, but Clint wouldn't let him go. "We need your help. We need you to fight. And we need you to keep yourself grounded, okay? Tony and I are here with you. You need to remember that. You could hurt us if you don't."

Steve paled even more. He managed a small nod. "Okay."

"Okay," Clint said. He gave Steve an encouraging smile. Steve didn't seem all that encouraged. Tony wasn't. He didn't know if Steve's pain was causing his emotional turmoil and that was causing the telekinesis or if the telekinesis was creating the pain and furthering the emotional turmoil. But he sure as hell knew a vicious cycle when he saw one. It would be damn near impossible to do one thing without escalating the other without feeding back on the first, and so on and so forth until Steve was too powerful to stop and trapped in hysteria and beyond reason and incredibly dangerous again.

Barton glanced to him as he helped Steve up to his feet. "You can remote pilot your suit, right?" He slung his arm around Rogers' waist, steadying him.

"Yeah," Tony answered, "but it's already taken some damage, and I can't take out so many targets without JARVIS' help, which I don't have."

"You don't need to. When they come through the clean room, we'll trap them. If they shoot at us, you need to stop them, Steve. Hold them back. Can you do that?" Steve didn't answer. The glow of his eyes seemed maniacal in the dim, ruddy light. Clint shook him a little. "Steve, focus. Can you do that?"

The soldier swallowed thickly. "Yeah. I can try."

"Tony, bring Iron Man around the back and blast them. Hopefully we can take some of them out, at least enough to get the hell of out here and back outside." Clint leaned Steve against the wall. He pulled a sheathed knife from his combat vest and handed it to Tony. He smirked just a little. "You break it, you buy it."

"Funny."

The doors exploded open on the other side of the lab. Clint ducked, pulling Steve down with him. Tony followed, dropping to a crouch and slinking into the shadows and tucking the knife into his belt. He pressed himself close to Steve's side. He felt every tremor that rocked the large frame beside him. Steve was hunched over, gasping noisily and heavily in the absolute silence while Clint and Tony hardly dared to breathe at all. "Easy," Clint whispered. The archer was peering through the observation window out through the desks and workbenches. Tony couldn't see as well from his vantage. A second later Clint looked back. He made a quick gesture with his hands, and Steve was with it enough to nod. Tony couldn't read SHIELD super spy charades, so he just waited and prayed Hawkeye knew what he was doing.

The silence was torturous. It was hard to keep still, hard when the sound of boots thudding softly against the floor was louder than a stampede, hard when seconds were bleeding away and every inclination in his heart screamed _run_ and he had to ignore it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw shadows sneaking outside, moving around the console to the left and approaching the hallway that led to the clean room. "Easy," Clint reminded again. His voice was a murmur in Steve's ear. Tony watched Clint take Rogers' hand and squeeze tight. "You can do this. They're coming now."

The attackers weren't going to be able to get the clean room open without reinstating power. It was an endless eternity of tension while Steve shivered and Clint stayed cool and collected and Tony fought not to fidget. Finally the lights flooded back on, bright and awful. Steve groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, nearly collapsing between them as he turned a queasy shade of green. "No," Clint calmly ordered, holding onto him tighter as he wavered. The doors unlocked and the clean room opened.

The men charged inside. Clint pointed his gun at them, his one handgun against the slew of assault rifles targeting them. "Drop it!" snapped the first black-clad soldier. "Hands on your head! Step away from him!"

"Never," Clint seethed. "Get out of here!"

The soldier wasted not another word, pulling the trigger on his gun. The shot careened toward Clint, aimed at his chest.

It never hit.

Steve held his hand up and the bullet just _stopped. _It hung in the air, spiraling slowly, and everybody watched it. Then the soldiers realized what they were up against and let loose, firing rapidly. Tony watched in complete awe as Steve rose smoothly to his feet like he hadn't been sick and weak and dying on them hours before and raised his other hand and brought every single bullet to a sudden and stunning halt. Steve narrowed his eyes and with a blink the array of bullets turned back and drove themselves into the legs and arms of their attackers, avoiding the bulletproof vests and disabling them.

Clint wasn't as careful. He delivered two fast head shots. "Now, Tony!"

Tony snapped out of his shock and spun toward the observation window, holding his own hands out. He wrenched them back toward him, the sharp action triggering the sensors in the implants in his arms. Iron Man's blue eyes winked to life from the corner of the lab where he'd left the armor. The repulsors in the boots ignited and the armor flew toward them. Faster than the men could prevent the palm repulsors powered up and fired. Tony shot blindly, ducking as Steve continued to hold his hands out and deflect the gunfire coming at them. The bullets bent in their trajectory around the Avengers, slamming into the ceiling and floor and wall and the window. Tony was terrified he'd be hit (he really had _no interest_ in getting shot again), but he wasn't. And when it stopped, bodies lay in strewn through the entrance to the cage and out into the clean room and corridor.

"Holy shit," Tony breathed.

Steve slumped down to his knees. He had one hand wrapped around his chest, the other weakly holding himself up to keep his face from hitting the floor. He coughed and blood dripped from his nose. Tony felt agonized and guilty just watching for a second, but that was all he could spare. "Come on!" He looped an around Steve's middle and tried to lift him, but the guy weighed a ton. "Barton! Come on!"

Clint turned. He grabbed one of the discarded rifles before rushing back to Steve. He took Steve's other arm and slung it over his shoulder. "One. Two. Three!" They stood, pulling Steve up with him. Steve crumpled. "No! You have to walk. We need to get you out of here."

"Can't. Gonna be sick," Steve mumbled. It was almost impossible to understand him he was slurring so badly.

"No, you're not." Clint was steadfast. He pulled Steve back to his feet. "Let's go. Stark!"

Tony knew what Clint wanted. With a flick of his wrist he summoned Iron Man to him. The armor fluidly came apart during the brief flight and encased his body. The second he felt the comforting strength and protection against him, he took almost all of Steve's weight from Clint. The three of them staggered and pushed their way through the clean room. "JARVIS, get me through to SHIELD."

"Communications are being prohibited, sir," JARVIS answered. "There is some sort of interference I cannot penetrate. I am attempting to work around it." The HUD immediately flooded with warnings, with the infrared signals of more approaching enemies. Dozens more.

"We're on our own," Tony said to Clint. "And there are a lot of guys coming. We have to get out of here."

"JARVIS know of any other way?" Clint asked.

Tony watched the diagrams quickly display on his screen. The range of the scans was limited, but he could see enough to realize they were as screwed as he'd thought they were. "No. We have to go up the elevator."

Clint's face was grim. He brought up the rifle as they stepped over the bodies all over the floor. They walked down the short hall, Tony half supporting, half dragging Steve along with him. They made it out into the central lab area only to be greeted by way too many AIM soldiers to possibly overcome. They were the Avengers, and they'd faced insurmountable odds before. But not with their captain simultaneously a huge disadvantage and an asset of potentially limitless power. Tony had no idea what their chances were. He didn't feel at all confident.

The rows of black-clad soldiers all stared at them, their guns aimed at their small group. Clint had his rifle pointed at them as well, but it was laughable how severely outnumbered they were. "I don't know how you think this is gonna end," Barton lowly said, "but it's _not_ ending with you taking Captain America."

Behind the soldiers a woman came forward. She had jet black hair, so glossy that it shone in the light, and blue eyes that were sharp, cold, and calculating. Her face was very white, as pale as milk, and striking against the dark locks framing it. Her features were fierce. She was beautiful but dangerous. Tony didn't recognize her. "Captain America is the property of Advanced Idea Mechanics," she smugly said. Her voice had a lilting quality to it and was heavily accented.

"Come again?" Tony could hardly keep his anger in check. "Captain America isn't the property of _anyone._"

"Mr. Stark, surely you're aware of the financial investment required in creating something bold and innovative," she said. "Our money funded Lahey's work, and he signed over the rights to any and all results he produced."

"What the hell…" Clint whispered. "You assholes are all insane." He stood closer to Steve. Protectively. "He's a person, not some goddamn specimen! And if you think we're going to let you kidnap him and torture him with whatever tests you have planned, you have another think coming."

"Clint," Steve said, leaning miserably against Iron Man. He looked like he was about ready to collapse at any second. "Don't."

Tony held him back, pushing him behind the two Avengers. Now wasn't the time for Rogers' self-sacrificing bullshit. They weren't about to let Steve surrender himself again for them. _No chance in hell._ "Leave," he ordered. "You're not getting what you want."

She was not daunted. Her eyes glimmered in wrath and frustration. "We came prepared to fight you, Mr. Stark. You won't win. You can't protect him from us."

"Are you deaf? Let me put this is really simple terms since you're having a problem understanding me," Tony said. "You're _not _taking him."

She coolly cocked an eyebrow. "I believe it's you who's having a problem understanding me. Captain America belongs to AIM, and he's coming with us no matter how you fight to stop that. It would be easier on us all if you stood down. But I'm prepared to do anything and kill anyone to secure our asset. So please make the wise choice and hand him over."

"Not happening. Go to hell," Tony snarled.

He couldn't tell if she was angry or amused or what. She seemed to flat-out not care about their defiance. "If that's how you want to play it. The Leader did warn me that you Avengers were stubborn to a fault."

There was no chance to ask who this 'Leader' was, because chaos exploded all around them. Tony had expected the soldiers to fire upon them, but they didn't at first. They didn't want to risk hitting Steve. Those closest charged, yanking stun batons from their belts. Clint immediately took advantage of that, unloading the rifle at the group advancing on them, but for every one that fell there were more behind him. The SHIELD agent tossed the spent gun and ran forward to take them on, fighting smoothly and quickly with lightning-fast reflexes and powerful strikes. Tony planted himself in front of Steve, pushing the soldier back against the glass observation window of the cage behind them. He powered the repulsor in his right palm and shot into the crowd. His HUD was displaying at least forty attackers flooding the lab and another slew coming down the elevator. _They brought a whole goddamn army!_ Clint was disarming and dropping men, but their assailants came faster, and now they were picking a couple of shots off at the agile archer. Computers shattered and sparks flew. A bullet or two clanked uselessly against Tony's armor.

"Kill them!" yelled the woman.

The soldiers eagerly followed her orders, abandoning any concern about wounding their prize. Those farther back in the room fired their rifles. Bullets clanked against the desks and consoles and Iron Man and slammed into the shatterproof glass behind them. Clint ducked behind the console and pulled his handgun from his holster. He reached over the top of the desk to return fire. Tony used his palm repulsor to knock two of the men back into their buddies and send the whole group tipping over one of the desks. He wanted to charge into the fray and put an end to this; he'd faced an army of soldiers enhanced by Extremis, so these bastards didn't stand a chance against Iron Man. But he didn't dare move and expose Steve. "Hey, Star-Spangled Man with the Plan," he gasped, "we could really use a plan right now."

Steve didn't answer. Tony chanced a look behind him. The soldier's pale face was covered in sweat, but his eyes were icy and tight with concentration and his hands were planted against the glass. It rattled, the two-inch thick pane vibrating and shaking enough that Tony could feel it through his suit. Cracks spread out from Steve's fingertips where they were braced against the glass. _Hulk-proof my ass._ "Clint, get down!"

He didn't give Barton a chance to respond, releasing Steve to fly toward him and tuck the archer's vulnerable body under his armor. The observation window exploded. Tony grimaced, holding Clint tighter against himself, as Steve threw his arms forward. He felt air rush by him in a deafening roar, and the glass burst into the lab in a spray of millions of tiny daggers. The force struck Iron Man's armor with enough power to knock him forward, to knock _everything_ forward a good three or four yards, and he pushed back to stay steady and keep Clint safe. He heard shocked and ragged screams. He looked up and found a significant portion of the men bleeding and moaning on the ground, cut and slashed and covered in glass.

Steve stood still, the area surrounding him completely bare of debris. Even the floor was cracked under his bare feet. He was panting, quivering, and wincing. It was clearly taking more and more out of him every time he used his powers. That probably wasn't good.

The alarmed stasis of their enemies didn't last long. A pair soldiers staggered to their feet and grabbed for Rogers. Steve threw one back across the room without even touching him, but the second got his fist in his shirt and yanked hard and swept his feet out from under him. The remainder of AIM's men saw their target go down, and they rushed past Tony and Clint. "No!" Tony cried, scrambling off of Hawkeye to fly to Rogers' side.

They fought like mad. Bullets flew everywhere, aimed sloppily in the frantic melee. In these close quarters, guns weren't terribly useful, and Clint moved fast, like a black blur, punching and kicking and disabling men quickly. Tony stood to his back and snatched the soldier closest to him and tossed him. Another man stupidly unloaded his rifle at him, every bullet crashing uselessly against Iron Man's chest plate, and when he was done Tony struck him across the face hard enough to spin him through the air. A couple of soldiers appeared at the other end of the room, and they lobbed a grenade over to them. The small ball hit the floor and Tony braced himself for an explosion that never came. Instead a shower of small metal discs, no larger than coins, whistled through the air. One hit his boot. Another struck the arm he'd lifted to protect Steve. And when they did, they shorted his suit. "What the hell, JARVIS?" he gasped as his HUD flooded with warnings. His arm fell uselessly to his side, suddenly impossibly heavy, and his boot felt welded to the floor. The knee joint was stiff and inoperative.

"Some sort of localized EMP, sir," the AI responded. "Rebooting."

"Clint! I'm stuck! Clint!" But Clint was knocked to the side and pushed away, entangled with a group of soldiers on his own. He was desperately trying to fight his way free, but he couldn't. And Tony couldn't move.

Steve's scream drew his attention, and he turned as much as he could just in time to see someone hit Rogers across the side with a stun baton. There were so many soldiers on him now. Steve shuddered but grabbed the baton against him and sent the crackling electricity back up to the man holding him down. The thug shrieked, blue bolts crawling all over his body as he jerked and jolted uncontrollably before tumbling heavily to the floor. A beefy arm wrapped around Steve's neck, strangling him, and more men threw themselves on top of him in a frenzy of slamming fists and straddling bodies. He cried out again, this time more in frustration than pain.

Gunfire rained down on Tony as he stood uselessly and tried to pick off the men with his working palm repulsor. In short order the bastards had Steve pinned to the floor, a whole company of large thugs holding him down. Steve kicked one and sent him flying with a bone-crushing crunch back into the wreckage. His arms were yanked down and his legs were restrained and he was overwhelmed and too weak and pained to keep fighting back.

More men were coming. Men with tranquilizer guns.

"Tony!" Clint cried.

There was no choice. Tony threw his arms forward and sent Iron Man flying. Everything except his boot and right vambrace came apart before barreling through the soldiers holding Steve down and closing around Captain America. The tranquilizer darts shattered and skittered haphazardly as they collided with Iron Man, and the men were forced to release their prisoner. Steve scrambled away. There was rage now, _a lot_ of it, and Steve let loose a vengeful shout. _Holy shit._ The men who'd hurt him were all simultaneously knocked to the floor by a wave of power radiating from Iron Man. Tony's knee bent and twisted painfully as it tried to take him down, as well. He heard screams and things breaking.

"Tony, look out!" Clint yelled. Tony ducked as a man punched at him. He was exposed now and still trapped, and they were on him like wolves smelling fresh blood. He pulled the knife Clint had given him from where he'd slid it into his belt, not knowing the first thing about combat like this but realizing it was better than nothing. He dodged another blow, pulling on his useless left boot as much as possible but it wouldn't budge. He caught the next strike against his vambrace, the man's fingers breaking against metal, and slashed back. The blade came away red. Clint scooped up another gun and fired, raining bullets upon the group of men tormenting them. A few fell, but many of the shots struck bulletproof vests and only slowed their attackers down.

Something glinted in the back of the room. Tony blinked the sweat out of his eyes, fighting to catch his breath and wondering what the hell was next. "You have got to be kidding me," he hoarsely moaned.

The distinctive sound of a rocket launcher launching a goddamn _rocket_ somehow pierced the din of fighting and his pounding heart. These people were serious and crazy. They were going to do this _down here_, with thousands of tons of earth piled atop this place.A split second later the missile was hurtling toward Tony and Clint.

A flash of red and gold slammed down in front of them. It took Tony's beleaguered mind way too long to realize it was Iron Man. Steve snatched Clint by his shirt and yanked him back behind him. As he peeled Iron Man off his own body and returned it to Tony, he held out his hand and made the rocket explode right in front of them rather than on them. And then he held the fire back, driving it away with a cry of effort that escalated into a scream of pain. For what felt like forever the flames wrapped around them, caressing the invisible sphere of protection enveloping them, and the world shook with the impact. The heat was so close and strong it was scalding even through the suit, bright and burning, and the orange and yellow light was blinding. There was no air to breathe. There was nothing aside from shock and terror.

When it was over, the room was still. The men who'd been caught in the explosion lay in smoldering piles around them, the few lucky survivors moaning and crawling away. Tony breathed heavily, the HUD flickering before his dazed eyes as his armor tried to recover from the blast. Clint was panting, singed, on his knees between Steve and Tony. And Steve was absolutely still.

The woman was watching him. She'd moved to the safety of the back of the lab. Her cheek had been sliced during the melee in a thin red line that traced her face. She smiled in satisfaction, despite the large number of her soldiers that were dead. Steve stared back, fear and pain slowly twisting his face. He faltered and weakly lowered his hand, his fingers blistered and burned. It was clear from his paling cheeks and dimming eyes that he was finished, that he had been pushed beyond his limits. He tipped, and she coolly observed every failing muscle, every uneven breath, every halting heartbeat. Tony reached forward to steady him. Clint scrambled to do the same. However, neither of them moved fast enough. Steve's eyes rolled back into his head and he fell.

Clint moved because Tony couldn't; he was still rooted by his malfunctioning boot. Barton crawled beside Steve's unmoving form. "Steve," he prodded in panic, his eyes wide in terror. He reached for the pulse point in Rogers' neck. "Steve! Wake up! _Steve!_" Clint's horrified gaze snapped to Tony. _"Stark!"_

Tony turned his gaze back to the soldiers. There were still so many, so _goddamn many_, and they were coming closer. The rocket launcher was trained on them. "Get back!" Tony ordered, raising his working palm repulsor to shoot the man wielding it. "Get the hell away! _Get back!_"

The men didn't listen. Clint clambered to his feet and guarded Steve, pulling his gun from his holster again, but the first of the soldiers was already on him. A punch across the face knocked him to the side into a desk. One of the men turned his tranquilizer gun on him and fired. The dart pierced Clint's combat vest and dug into his shoulder. He lost consciousness instantly and slumped to the floor, hitting his head on the desk on the way down and knocking the needle loose.

_Oh, no._ "Clint!" Panic left Tony reeling. "Clint! Get up!" Barton didn't move. Blood glistened wetly above one of his ears. Horrified, Tony pulled harder and harder at his boot. "JARVIS, do something!"

"The suit is nonresponsive, sir. The EMP crippled my control over the affected sections." The AI's tone was as flat and even as ever, but Tony heard desperation in it. "I am trying to reroute power to the emergency release mechanisms."

It was too late. Too goddamn late. Tony couldn't reach Steve, couldn't help him, as the soldiers stepped over Clint's body and grabbed Rogers and pulled him roughly away toward the center of the room. "Get away from him!" Tony snarled. His voice broke in helplessness. He raised his palm repulsor and shot one man, throwing him back from the group.

"Stop it, Mr. Stark," the woman calmly commanded. "There's no point now. You've lost." The guy with the rocket launcher stalked closer, his aim never wavering from Iron Man. The fight was over. Everyone knew it. It took a great deal of will but Tony lowered his arm. _No,_ he thought. He couldn't accept this. _No! Please don't let them–_

The soldiers worked fast. They rolled Steve on his back, taking quick stock of his vitals. Iron Man's sensors were doing the same. Steve was alive, at least, but his heart rate had skyrocketed to an unhealthy race again. He was struggling for breath. His eyelids fluttered and he tensed under the rough hands restraining him. Dispassionately the man who'd shot Clint came with the tranquilizer gun and unloaded a few rounds in Steve's thigh. Steve jerked and went completely limp and the EKG lines racing across the HUD slowed drastically. And that was that. Tony knew beyond any doubt that AIM was walking out of there with Captain America, and there was not a damn thing he could do to prevent it.

"You bitch," Tony snarled, unable to keep his frustration caged any longer. Vitriol laced his tone as he turned Iron Man's hateful glare toward the mystery woman. She stood with her arms folded across her chest. "What are you going to do to him?"

"The same thing you try to do with any successful experiment," she said simply. "Validate and replicate."

Nothing so simple had ever sounded so sinister.

Her men were quickly and efficiently securing their prize. They rolled Steve to his stomach and roughly yanked his arms behind his back. Cuffs far too thick to be defeated by even Captain America's enhanced strength were closed around his wrists. Another band of the same metal was wrapped around Steve's chest and biceps and fastened. They pressed tape firmly over his mouth and pulled a black sack over his head and drew it tight. Tony watched it all, so miserably helpless. He couldn't believe this was happening. He couldn't believe he was letting this happen!

It took three of the bigger soldiers to haul Steve's limp body upward and drag him away. Tony prayed for something – anything – to intervene on their behalf. He prayed Clint would come to. That Bruce and Natasha would suddenly arrive. That Nick Fury and all the wrath of SHIELD would burst into the lab. That Steve would wake up. But nobody came, and nothing happened. Clint was still crumpled and lifeless on the floor. And Steve's heart rate was sinking lower and lower, lower than it had been when he'd been so deeply asleep before. Dangerously low. He wasn't going to wake up. He couldn't fight. He couldn't struggle. He couldn't protect himself.

And AIM was leaving with him. The injured were gathered and helped to limp and stagger toward the elevator. The dead were left. Clint was left. Tony was left, stuck to the goddamn floor, so angry and useless and _helpless_… "Where are you taking him?" he demanded. The pain spilled from his pounding, straining heart. They ignored him. He couldn't see Steve anymore. They'd carried him into the elevator. "Answer me, god damn it! Where are you taking him?" The woman was waiting. Tony noticed as the room emptied and the smoke cleared and the dust settled that she was standing beside a few other men dressed in plain clothes rather than combat gear. They'd been working at one of the computer terminals that had been spared by the destruction. He realized right away what they were doing. _Stealing all of our data._ They finished and stood, pulling USB drives from the computer terminals and placing them in protective suitcases and walking away. "You can't do this!"

"How are you going to stop us, Mr. Stark?" The woman shook her head. "Did you think that preventing Killian from murdering the President could destroy us? AIM is far more than just one man or one plot. It's a vast network, a machine powered by the greatest mind our world has even known. You can't stop us."

"I swear to God if you hurt Steve…"

"You'll what? Send SHIELD after us? Rally the Avengers against us? We have your captain. He's ours now. Once we stabilize and reproduce the chemical process inside of him, our power will be limitless. And once we turn him against you, you'll be bound so tightly by your own grief and guilt that you'll never be able to bring yourselves to fight him. Having him destroy you will be easier than we ever imagined."

"He'll never do that," Tony snapped. "_Never._"

She smiled thinly. Knowingly. It was chilling. "Yes, he will. The Leader will make sure of it. You've already seen the darkness spreading inside of him." Tony blanched. She seemed to somehow detect his dismay even though she couldn't see his face. Her lips curved more into a smug grin. "And besides, if I were you, I'd be more concerned about your friend over there. That tranquilizer was designed to bring down a super soldier. What do you think it might do to a normal man?" Tony's blood ran cold. She confidently strolled up to him. "I'm not sure, really. I didn't have the time to properly test it, so you might want to keep an eye on his breathing. I would. Oh, and give this to Doctor Banner, if you wouldn't mind." Boldly she lifted his hand and set a USB stick into it. "Thank you, Mr. Stark."

When she was gone and Tony was alone, he finally let go of a furious scream.

* * *

It took JARVIS another five minutes to finally reboot the damaged computer systems inside Iron Man to free Tony's leg and arm. It took another few minutes after that for SHIELD to arrive. The STRIKE Team found Tony cradling Clint's limp body, pressing the bottom of his own shirt to the gushing wound on the archer's head to try and control the bleeding. He'd been counting the weak pace of Clint's breath and the weak flutters of his pulse against his fingertips and praying to God (which he never did) that Barton hung on until help arrived. "We need a medic down here!" he shouted. "Hurry!"

The medical team came almost immediately, bearing a few large bags of supplies and a gurney. They got Clint on top of it, jabbering quickly about Barton's vitals. They placed an oxygen mask around his mouth and nose and measured his blood pressure and prepared a shot of epinephrine to jolt his system and save his fading life. The adrenaline did the trick. Clint snapped to awareness, coughing and squirming in pain and shock, his face clenched in misery and disorientation. He reached for Tony as the medics tried to carry him away. "Steve?" he gasped, grabbing Stark's bloodied hand.

"No," Tony softly answered. The defeat in Clint's eyes was heart-rending. He squeezed them shut in agony, agony that his friend who'd already been through so much had been abducted by the very same monsters who'd experimented on him and _they hadn't stopped it_. He balled his hands into fists and choked on his breath. Tony didn't have a chance to promise some bullshit about getting Steve back before they took Clint away.

Fury came then, passing the gurney as the team rushed it toward the elevator, and appraised Tony with a stern and alarmed glare. The wreckage in the lab was disturbing to say the least, but not so much as the desperate gleam Tony knew was shining in his own eyes. "You have to track them," he snapped to Fury. His damn leg ached like a son of a bitch for being twisted so much while he'd been trapped, and his stomach hurt about as badly, but he didn't care. He limped to the one of the few working computer terminals and frantically tried to assess how much AIM had stolen. And the answer to that, unfortunately, was _everything_. Test results. Imaging. Their genetic analyses. Computer simulations. Bruce's work on the sedatives. Wright's notes on Steve's physical examinations from the first one to the last. All of SHIELD's data on Lahey and his experiments. _Damn it!_ "Tell me you can track them!"

Fury had the decency to look ashamed. "They're gone."

Tony glared at him with burning eyes. "What the hell do you mean they're gone? It's only been a few minutes! What the hell?"

"Banner's meeting with Sterns was a trap."

"No shit!"

A wrathful, frustrated scowl claimed Fury's face. "By the time we got word that something was happening here, it was too late. And we lost contact with the satellites maintaining surveillance on this installation."

"Lost contact?"

"Our connection with it was severed. We think it was an inside job. But honestly if I'd been able to bring agents in on this from the beginning, this wouldn't have happened! You should have trusted us from the beginning!" Tony swore under his breath and looked away. "We've got everyone we can spare on this, and local law enforcement and the FBI are blocking every major road out of the state."

Tony highly doubted that a few police blockades would stop AIM. "That won't matter. They've been playing us since the start. Somehow they set this whole goddamn thing up and now they got what they wanted." Fury grimaced and tensed. "How the hell does this happen? How the hell did we let this happen?" Tony kicked the desk in anger, and the whole thing rattled and pain shot up his foot. He leaned tiredly into the bent surface, trying to quell his rage. It wasn't working. "It's our goddamn fault they took him. Jesus!"

"Stark–"

"There was a woman. Had black hair and blue eyes a heavy Italian accent."

Fury's face softened. "Did you recognize her?"

Tony shook his head. "She was obviously in charge. And she kept mentioning someone running AIM called the Leader."

"Any idea who that is?"

"No, but we're dealing with some serious evil here. Serious beyond mercenaries and mad scientists and human experimentation. We can't let them stabilize Lahey's procedure and replicate it."

"Is that possible?"

Tony sighed, flustered as all hell. "I don't know. But even if it isn't, they have one viable, working sample." He could barely stop the shudder crawling up his back, thinking of that woman's taunts and emotionless eyes. "If they find a way to turn Steve into a weapon…"

"Rogers won't break."

"Goddamn it, Nick! He's been breaking for days, since that asshole strapped him to a table and did this to him! They're turning his mind against him! How long can anyone hold out against that?" Fury averted his gaze, wincing. It was pointless arguing about this. They were wasting time. "I really need to talk to Banner," Tony insisted. He'd put that USB stick the woman had given him in his pocket. Part of him had considered giving it over to Fury. A small part. For a measly second or two. Then he'd come to his senses. "Where is he?"

Fury straightened his form slightly. "They're on their way back to the helicarrier. We can be there in thirty minutes. I'm going to set you up with Sitwell and have you start looking at some faces. If you can ID this woman, we can start a trace. It's better than nothing." Tony nodded. He closed his eyes against the ache in his body and the throbbing in his head and the pain in his heart. "Stark, we'll get him back."

_Don't count on it._

* * *

SHIELD's database of "persons of interest" was huge, but once Agent Sitwell and the techs refined the search parameters properly, they came up with a name right away. "Monica Rappaccini," Tony read as her profile appeared on the computer screens across the bridge of the helicarrier. Those icy blue eyes were glaring at him again, and that shudder itched at his resolve. He tensed his back and shoulders to keep still. "Graduated from the University of Padua in 1992 with dual degrees in biochemistry and genetics. PhD/MD from Columbia. Wow. Nobel Prize candidate?"

"She's an expert in toxins, poisons, and genetic mutations," Fury said, "who has some questionable views on western civilization. Somewhere between nearly winning the Nobel Prize for science and joining AIM, she decided humanity was too corrupt to continue to exist as it has. She founded the pan-European leftist group Black Orchestra, which has caused some disruptions in the political environment of the EU. Nothing too serious, but it got her a place on Interpol's watch-list."

"How did she end up with AIM?" Tony asked.

Sitwell shook his head. "We don't know, but she has ties to Maya Hansen. Apparently they worked together in past, even published some papers as co-authors."

Tony sighed wearily. Everything was tying back to that hellish nightmare with Killian and Extremis. What was that he'd told himself? _We create our own demons._ "Great. How does this help us find Rogers?"

"We have the face trace running, and there's an APB out on her. Every agent from here to the west coast is working on this. We'll find her. AIM can't mobilize a force of the size that attacked you without attracting some attention," Sitwell answered.

Tony wasn't at all comforted by that. It had been two hours since Steve's abduction, and so far not one word of any sort of sign of the men who'd taken him had emerged from SHIELD's efforts. He didn't doubt that SHIELD was capable of conducting a thorough and exhaustive manhunt. He was just damn sure that AIM and this Rappaccini woman were too smart to be caught, not when they had Steve clutched in their awful fingers. They had the smarts and the financing and the power to hide from SHIELD; they obviously had for years, and they had obviously slipped moles into Fury's organization that had done plenty of damage. In two hours, they could have taken Steve _anywhere._

The rear doors to the bridge opened and Agents Hill and Romanoff entered. Bruce followed, and Tony could tell immediately that his friend was downright defeated. He looked exhausted and beaten by worry. Obviously they'd been informed of what had happened. Natasha was tense with anger. Tony felt inexplicably guilty at her icy scowl. "What's going on?"

"Nothing so far," Sitwell explained. He didn't look pleased. "We're jacked into every wireless device around the country that we can access. But we're still having trouble keeping a steady connection to the satellites. A few of them now."

Fury looked like he was ready to hit something. Tony had never seen the normally unflappable Director seem so flustered and lost. Captain America had been kidnapped on his watch by a subversive science group intent on weaponizing him. That was pretty damn upsetting. And it felt like SHIELD was being thwarted every step of the way. "I want this operation secured," he said to his top agents. "I want to know what the hell happened. Somebody's calling the shots, and I want to know who."

"It's Sterns," Bruce declared quietly. He winced, sheepish and disturbed. "I don't know how, but he knows things. Things about Steve and what we discovered that he couldn't have known."

Fury released a slow breath. He was struggling to hold to his temper. His mind went to the obvious conclusion, but Tony was starting to think the obvious wasn't the case at all. Maybe it never had been. "If there are moles, I want them found. Hill, go back to the Fridge. You're in charge there until further notice. Question everyone. Make sure Sterns is in isolation. No one aside from you sees him or talks to him. Figure out how the hell he planned all this. Understood?"

If Hill was at all displeased with her orders, it wasn't obvious. She raised her chin and nodded. "Yes, sir." Then she was gone again.

Natasha stood beside Fury. She watched the maps and images fly by on the touch screens as the computer churned through its search. They were radiating out from New York. "They won't be able to keep the Cap under control," she said. "He was too erratic."

"And if they can?" Bruce said.

"Let's not speculate," Fury calmly ordered, "and just find him."

"She's the one who took him?" Natasha asked, scrutinizing the image of Rappaccini. Her quick eyes devoured the information. "Is there anything else you can tell us, Stark?"

"No," Tony said. The USB stick in his pants felt like it was burning a hole in pocket. He glanced at Bruce who was looking at the picture of Rappaccini like he'd seen a ghost. That pretty much confirmed everything he'd feared.

"Did Barton recognize her?"

Fury shook his head. "We don't know yet. He's still unconscious. Wright said he was lucky. The cocktail of sedatives and paralytics in that dart would have killed him in a matter of seconds if he'd gotten the full dose." It had certainly dropped Steve. That wasn't a good thing. If they had the power to keep Rogers unconscious or docile, then the chances of him escaping or even struggling were greatly diminished. And Tony highly doubted these bastards would have their consciences wearing on them about keeping a man asleep while they experimented on him against his will. "I want everything we can find on this woman. Let's get her research out to every biochem specialist we have on staff. We need answers."

Bruce opened his mouth, still staring at Rappaccini's stunning face, but Tony spoke before the physicist could. "Speaking of answers, I'll go work on figuring out what's screwing around with your satellite feed. Might as well do something useful. I need your help, Bruce." Banner jerked a little from his stupor, looking at Tony like he had two heads. Tony gave him a quick, exasperated look that he hoped no one else noticed.

Fury noticed. "Stark–"

"Look, I just watched a bunch of assholes brutally kidnap my friend and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it, so let me do this. Back the hell off and let me help!" Tony snapped. At least he didn't have to fake the anger. Or the shame. Maybe not even the friend part, if the pain and worry constantly constricting his heart was any indication.

Surprisingly, Fury's hard expression loosened, and after a short, tense pause he nodded. Tony didn't bother getting the scowl off his face or even waiting for Bruce, turning sharply and exiting the bridge. Banner was smart enough to follow.

Once they were relatively alone in the corridor, Tony started quickly walking to one of the labs aboard the helicarrier, Bruce jumping to catch up with him. "Who is she?" he demanded in a hushed tone.

Bruce looked troubled. "God, what the hell is this? A trip down memory lane? Has everyone I've ever worked with gone insane?"

"I'm still normal enough."

Bruce managed half a grin and a choked chuckle. "Her name's Monica Rappaccini."

"Yeah, got that. Who is she to you?"

Bruce took his arm and pushed him to one of the bulkheads around a corner and away from the hustle and bustle of the bridge. "She was an exchange student at Desert State when I was there in the early nineties. We had a fling one summer. This was well before I'd met Betty, and I was lonely and we were working together and–"

"You don't need to explain the concept of a fling to me, Banner."

"What the hell is she doing involved in this?" Bruce looked even more exhausted. He slumped and brought his hand to his forehead. "What did she say?"

"The usual bullshit. She talked about Rogers like she was coming to reclaim AIM's property," Tony said in disgust. "The results of their investment."

"Christ," Bruce moaned. "She was always high-strung. Way too intense and way too serious. But I never thought she'd end up… Who the hell am I kidding? I'm obviously the worst judge of character ever." Tony wanted to make some sort of smart-ass wisecrack about that, but he couldn't manage the levity. "Tony, we have to get Steve back. Sterns is insane. He _knew_ the super soldier serum's fighting what Dan's drug did to him. How could he have known that? There's more going on here, and whatever it is, Sterns is controlling it." Bruce winced and Tony thought he saw the glimmer of desperate tears in the other man's eyes. "I can't stop thinking about what they'll do to him…"

"Don't. We can only go forward." Tony reached into his pocket. "Rappaccini asked me to give this to you." He held out the USB device. "I kept this from Fury. No one else knows. If Sterns is using SHIELD to play God, the more we keep from them the better."

Bruce's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and stared at the USB stick like it was deadly. "What's on it?"

Tony shook his head. "She didn't say. But we need to find out."

"Here?"

"I'd rather not, but there's no time to go anywhere else."

They continued silently to the lab a few decks down. When they reached it, Tony secured the doors as best he could with his consultant level clearance codes (a mere pittance compared to the security codes the higher level agents had, but he'd managed to beef them up slightly over the years on his own). The midday sun was spilling inside, too bright considering how exhausted they both were. They went to the main computer terminal. Bruce pulled the touch screen closer as Tony slid the USB drive into a port. "Looks like there's one file." He spent a second more getting the file's properties. "It's a video."

That was more ominous than it should have been. Bruce hesitated for a moment. "Play it," he finally said.

On the monitor, Rappaccini's beautiful face appeared. Her lush black hair was pulled into a tight bun and her make-up was impeccable, her eyes smoky and heavily lined and her lips stained red. Those blue eyes were more ice than water, hard edges rather than smooth surfaces. Closed rather than inviting. "Hello, Bruce," she said in that deep, accented voice. "It's been so long. You might be surprised to see me. Frankly, you shouldn't be. You more than anyone knows the imbalances of power in the world. The stupid surround themselves with it, gathering the strength and determination of the intelligent like they're harvesting a crop. They covet it and sell it to each other and use it to fight wars with one another and play with it like children, not knowing at all what they have in their hands. Governments and armies. The US and the EU. NATO. SHIELD. Foolish men who understand nothing but act like they know everything and own everyone. I used to simply accept that this was all humanity could be, the weak chaining the weaker. The few of us who are too wise and smart to submit spend our lives floundering to keep our minds and creations to ourselves."

Tony grimaced at the sanctimonious crap. It never failed to amaze him how the criminally insane and unrepentantly evil could convince themselves of their own self-righteousness. "AIM was founded to return power to those who deserve it. Without science, without our understanding of our world, these governments and organizations have _nothing_. They need to stop using us. Some of us willingly sell ourselves to them, your friend Stark included." Tony stiffened. "Weakness. These men who think they control the world… They need to realize _we_ are the ones who control _them_. The Leader has taught me that. He has taught me so much. So much. He has shown me a world where we, the _intelligent_, rule over them, the _mindless._"

She smiled. It was both radiant and repulsive. "There is a place for you in that world, Bruce. There always has been. You're like us, like me. Like him. You see the world for what it really is. Molecules and chemical reactions and atoms interacting in ways that beleaguer the inferior mind. You understand power. And you understand how to create it." Tony glanced at Bruce, but he was stiff as a board beside him. His hands were balled into fists at his side, and there was a dark look in his eyes that Tony didn't like. "You're willing to explore, to experiment, to _prove_ the things you know are true. You're maybe a little reticent, but I think the drive to truly be great is there. The consequences are irrelevant. You want to _understand_, and you can."

Her grin faded slightly. There had been genuine affection in her gaze before, but now it was gone and replaced with strict seriousness. "The Leader has afforded you this single chance to be a part of what's to come. In two days I'll be waiting in Santa Fe outside the university library at six o'clock. You know where. If you're there, you will join us. If not you're not or you bring SHIELD or the Avengers with you, you will be against us, and we'll afford you no mercy." She lifted her chin a bit. "Join us, Bruce. Daniel Lahey was a genius, but he was too swayed by his own emotions to perfect his work. Despite your condition, I know you can be remarkably calm. And remarkably detached. Science does require a level of detachment. Together I think you and I can produce a weapon that will bring the old world to its knees and burn it down to make way for our new one. And, perhaps, a way to turn you back into the man you were." Tony felt his blood turn to ice. He looked at Bruce again, but he was still watching. "The answers are in his blood. You know they are." Bruce wasn't breathing. Tony felt his tension. "And I know you've looked. Maybe I can help you find them. Imagine that, Bruce. Free from the monster. Think about it. I know you will."

The video ended. It had barely been a minute long, but it had felt like an eternity. The two of them stood there, bathed in the too-bright light of day, feeling lost and alone and out of control.

Then Bruce let loose a stiff sigh. His eyes focused on the now blank screen and he squared his shoulders. "I'm going."

"Bruce, no! _Think_, goddamn it! She's using you! They know they need you, and–"

Bruce's face tightened in fury. "This is the only way I can get to Steve," he answered, and he stormed out of the lab leaving Tony to wonder what exactly he meant by that. He shouldn't have doubted (this was _Bruce_, for God's sake!), but he couldn't stop himself. The world was so fundamentally screwed up now that he finally was forced to entertain the suddenly very real possibility that there was no way to fix it. That shudder finally broke free and wracked its way up his back and for some crazy reason he wanted to cry.


	12. Chapter 12

**DISCLAIMER:** _Iron Man 3, The Incredible Hulk,_ _Captain America: The First Avenger,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Just a quick note that I'll be out of town on vacation for the next week or so, and I don't know how much time I'll have to write. Therefore the next chapter might be slower in coming, so sorry about that! :-)

Warnings for more misery. I don't know how much more Steve can take…

**UNSUSTAINABLE**

**12**

Steve thought he was dreaming.

Somewhere in the back of his mind it bothered him that he couldn't be sure anymore. It bothered him that it was dark and that he couldn't breathe. It bothered him that he couldn't move. There were memories, things drifting about his head. Tony and Clint fighting. Trying to protect him. Him trying to protect them. Failing. Falling. So much pain. Hands holding him down. Then blackness. Always blackness.

_"It's because he's so weak."_ The words cut through the storm constantly thundering inside his head. He knew that voice. He hadn't heard it in years, but it was there, tormenting him again as though he'd never forgotten it. And he realized it was dark because it was nighttime and the lights in their tiny apartment in Brooklyn were always so dim and ineffective. He couldn't move because he was too exhausted and his mother was holding him too tightly, her warm arms wrapped protectively around his small, shivering body. He couldn't breathe because his lungs weren't working right, and he felt so miserable because his head was raging with a burning fever. It was pulsing and wracking in time with his shallowly thrumming heart. He was so sick. He was sick and his father was furious. _"Weak and coughin' all the goddamn time. He's a burden, Sarah! He's breaking us!"_

She didn't say anything, her long, cool fingers stroking tenderly through his hair. He closed his eyes and tried not to listen, but that voice was booming and it was impossible not to hear it. They were arguing about him again. Mostly it was his father yelling, so angry and frustrated at the small, asthmatic boy who was good for nothing, who couldn't work or help around their sad excuse for a home, who couldn't even manage playing outside or going to school without taking ill. He was raging as hot and heavy as Steve's fever. And he was drunk. He was always drunk, even though it aggravated his own scarred lungs. There was a bottle of something or other, some kind of dark liquid that smelled strong and rank, clenched in his fist. Steve watched the liquor slosh against the glass as he shook it at them before burying his face back in his mother's dress. _"Let him die this time. Just let him. He's takin' every cent we manage to bring in! We can't keep wastin' our money on this."_

_ "He's our son,"_ his mother softly said.

_"He's _your_ son," _his father snapped, _"and about as pathetic as you are. He's turned you into a goddamn nursemaid, sleeping in our bed all the time, the little bastard. I'm gonna kill him myself if this doesn't, I swear to God, Sarah. I swear I will."_ The door slammed shut.

Steve choked on his breath. He always did. And that small hiccup quickly morphed into an unstoppable paroxysm of vicious coughs that shook every part of him. He struggled weakly for air, writhing with his fingers curled tightly in his mother's skirt. _"Easy, baby,_" she soothed. She was scared, and he could tell. She was scared she wouldn't be able to get his fever down no matter how she tried to cool his forehead and face and neck and chest. She was scared that one of these horrible coughing fits would be his last, that the wheeze of breath rattling in and out of him would stop. She was scared of watching her child suffer. She was scared they would need more medicine, medicine that they could barely afford and that her husband would beat her for purchasing. And she was scared Steve's father would make good on his promise. _"Breathe,"_ she implored, rubbing Steve's chest that was so congested and filled with fluid that that simplest of things had become impossible. _"Just breathe, baby. Can you do that for me? You're so strong, Steve. Breathe."_ Tears rolled down her face but her voice was soft and steady as she sung to him, as she prayed for him, as she calmed and quieted him until he could sleep. _"Breathe. You'll be alright."_

He was breathing now, fast and quick through his nose. He could hear his rushed panting against the cloth over his face. It was hot, _burning_, and he was sweating. He couldn't see. "Get him inside," somebody ordered. A woman's voice with a strong accent that reminded him of fighting in the Italian countryside. Hands were on him again. They were pulling him up and forward. They were harsh and insistent. They were taking him.

He couldn't see!

That didn't stop him from struggling.

There was a sickening snap as bones were broken. The hands on him. The fingers latched around his ankles. The arm around his neck. Men were screaming in pain, and he moved his wrists apart with everything he had left in him, fighting against the metal binding him. He was stronger now. He could break it. He could–

Whatever they'd put around his chest and arms snapped. That gave him more room to fight, more room to maneuver, and he ground his teeth together and _pulled_. "He's going to rip the cuffs!"

"Bring him down!"

"Give him another dose! Hurry! _Hurry!_"

Steve howled in anger. He couldn't see, but he could hear and he could _feel_, and he felt every molecule of air between him and the people around him. The particles were scattered, randomly moving, but he could make them move hard and fast and together. So he did. And more men screamed. _Get up! Get up! Run!_

_"Get up! Get up! Come on, kid. They're coming!"_ A hand balled into his shirt and yanked so hard it ripped at the shoulder – his mother wasn't going to be happy about that. But the hand kept pulling and the boy in front of him kept laughing as they ran down the alleyway away from the kids yelling behind them. He could keep up. He could run. He could fly. _"Come on! Run!"_

Something hard and firm hit him from behind and he staggered and skidded to his knees. His desperate, enraged cry was muffled by the tape over his mouth and the sack over his head. He heard a gun going off. Pain spread from his arm, a sharp needling pain. He recognized it from before. A warm sensation of losing control suddenly rushed over him, spreading from his heart like a wet, suffocating shroud, and he felt like he was drowning. More weight pushed him down, weight that seemed like men lying across his chest and abdomen and legs. "More," another voice ordered. Fingers impatiently snapped together, like they were gesturing for something that someone wasn't delivering fast enough. "Quickly!"

"Hold him. Hold him!"

"Easy. He's hyperventilating." The suffocating cloth was gone from his lower face and he could breathe a little easier but he still couldn't see. The roughness of concrete scraped his cheek. He was so flustered and disoriented that he could only mindlessly squirm.

"That's not enough. Give him more."

Something stung his leg. And then another something. That awful sensation of heat blasted over him in dizzying, miserable waves, and he couldn't fight the numbness in its wake. He was gasping again, fighting to stay awake even as the drugs pulled him down. Frustrated tears burned in his eyes, seeping into the fabric around his head. He couldn't stop it. He never could.

_"Just breathe, baby. You'll be alright."_

* * *

They were moving him. Steve was vaguely aware of that. His feet were dragging beneath him, his toes brushing over tiled floors that were cold and smooth. They'd pulled the sack from his head, and while his eyes blinked languidly against the pull of sleep, he caught glimpses of things. White rooms. Labs. Medical equipment. Doctors and nurses and researchers. Soldiers. _Please, not again…_ That was the only thought in his head. Terror and horror, but not strong enough to help him. Panic, but not close enough to drive his leaden, limp body. He was helpless. The darkness swirling around inside his head pulled him back to its embraces.

When he woke up, he smelled pine and sap and wet soil. The air was thick with moisture and warmth and it buzzed with bugs. He wasn't sure where they were. Some godawful forest in southern Germany. _"It's so goddamn hot,"_ Dugan groaned from where he lay against a tree. He'd taken off his jacket and bowler and dropped his gun and was unceremoniously emptying the rest of his canteen over the mess of his ginger hair. _"Christ, I hate the army sometimes."_

Falsworth sent him a disparaging look. _"Wasting water is not wise, Sergeant,"_ he reminded.

_"Carter and the others'll be here soon,"_ the larger man grumbled. _"Never known that woman to be late."_

_"Don't come crying to me when you're thirsty later_."

He was so thirsty. His throat hurt. "Water," he moaned. His mouth wouldn't work right. It didn't sound right. "Please."

"Is he awake? He's trying to say something."

"No. I think he's dreaming. But get an IV in. They want him on a constant push of the dendrotoxin."

He was walking. Plodding on weary feet. He couldn't remember the last time any of them had slept. This last offensive against HYDRA had been grueling, and no matter what they did, the Commandos couldn't get the upper hand. _"You look like a dead man walking, Cap," _Jones said from beside him. Sweat was rolling down the other man's face in huge, fat beads. _"Need a breather?"_

"I don't like this. Dial back the toxin. It's too much."

"What if he–"

"Take the tape off. He can't breathe like this."

"Wait until it's time to intubate. The doc wants him restrained. She wanted a look at him first."

_"Colonel wants to see you, Rogers," _Morita declared as he stepped out of a tent in the makeshift base SSR had set up some miles south of the front lines of the last skirmish. _"Good luck. He's throwin' a pissing fit over us going east. Breathing fire."_ Morita laughed. _"Apparently no good deed goes unpunished."_

_"Does it ever?" _Steve asked. _"Anyone seen Bucky?"_

_"He's off getting his hand looked at. You don't remember ordering him to?"_ Falsworth asked. He seemed worried, which was unusual for him.

Steve grunted. _"Can't remember my own name sometimes. Something's not right up here."_ He tapped a grime-covered finger to his temple.

_"Always said you were a crazy sonuvabitch, Rogers,"_ Dum Dum declared. _"Have to be to keep putting up with this shit."_

Dernier muttered something in French, irate and uncomfortable. Falsworth handed Steve a full canteen. At least they had water now. _"Drink. You don't look good. Are you wounded?"_

"Turn it off. Pull the IV if you have to. His pulse rate's collapsing."

"No… No, it's leveling off now. Just keep an eye on it. We'll proceed."

_"God damn it, Rogers! What the hell happened out there?"_ Morita was right. Phillips was in a damn foul mood. He was downright furious. Steve didn't think he'd ever seen the man be anything other than hardened and gruff, but he was particularly ornery because of the sweltering summer temperatures and because they were all so tired. And because the higher-ups were apparently livid that the mission hadn't gone to plan. They'd won, but there'd been a period there where things hadn't looked like they were going to go that way. Phillips wanted to take it out on somebody, all too eager to chew someone out for the mess. And Steve happened to be a convenient target. A convenient target that could take the hits. Everyone's favorite dancing monkey. A goddamn whipping boy. _"You were supposed to be reinforcing the 107th! Mind explaining to me how the hell you ended up three miles away?"_

_ "Agent Carter got wind that Schmidt's forces were changing their course and heading for a village–"_

_ "Then she should have reported that to me and allowed me to make the call! This whole op was nearly shot to hell!"_

_"It wasn't, sir, with all due respect. And we saved lives. I thought that was what this was all about."_

He shouldn't have said that. He had more latitude than most soldiers because of who he was and what he did, but insubordination was insubordination. Still, he was too hot and weary to keep his temper under check. Phillips looked at him with a hard glare that suggested he wasn't going to be bested, even if Steve had thirty years of youth and seventy-five pounds of muscle on him. _"This is about winning a war, and the brass thinks that will happen with soldiers who follow orders, not with heroes who go gallivanting off because they're thinking with their balls rather than with their brains." _Steve flushed in embarrassment and anger, but Phillips went on before he could defend himself. _"I don't know what's going on between you and Carter and I don't care. And I don't give a good goddamn if you're Captain America. The Allied Commanders are slamming me for this, and you better thank your lucky stars I'm in a good enough mood to take it. Star-Spangled Man with the Plan? Your plan is _my_ plan. There's a chain of command for a reason. Just because you run your unit like a goddamn fraternity doesn't mean you can call the shots. Now get your ass out of here. I can't stand to look at you."_

Sufficiently disgraced but not one bit sorry about what he'd done, Steve gritted his teeth and exited the officer's tent and stormed away. He made it a good ten feet before someone grabbed his arm and pulled him into another tent. _"Peggy–"_

_ "Do you ever tire of taking hits, Steve?" _she asked. Her hair was thick with the heat, curled more than normal and in a bit of disarray, and there was dirt streaked on her face. Her skin was glistening in sweat. He'd never seen her so unkempt. She was close to him, her fingers pulling on the buckles and zippers of his dirty, bloody uniform. He wanted to kiss her but he settled for wiping the beads of perspiration from her temple. She took his hand from her face and smiled tenderly. Gratefully. _"Are you hurt?"_

"They want samples. Blood. CSF. Brain tissue. Everything."

"Is he going to stay like this? Do we need more anesthetic?"

"Will it even work? I thought he metabolized–"

"He's out."

He wasn't out. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't. He wanted to struggle, but the commands from his brain never seemed to reach his body. The soldiers and researchers, nameless, faceless men, had positioned him on an icy, metal table. They were uncompassionate and precise, moving his arms and legs as though he was nothing more than a giant doll. Steel cuffs were locked around his wrists and ankles. He blinked as a bright light was flashed into his eyes. "Get him on the monitors." Things were attached to him, wires and sensors. Then someone came with scissors and cut the clothes from his body. So many hands and blurry faces. He drifted, unable to ground himself enough to do more than notice them coming and going and touching him.

He did more than notice when they started cutting into his body.

Steve screamed in pain and bucked and arched his back as every nerve jolted alive with fire. The haze of the sedative was ripped away by his emotions (and all of the power that came with them), and the terror and horror and panic raced from the void and pulsed through him. The cuff around his right wrist snapped clear from the table as he grabbed the doctor closest to him and threw him into the wall. "We need help in here!" somebody screamed. The nurses and physicians fled from his struggling form in fright. "We need help!"

Soldiers rushed into the room, demanding that he stop, that he stand down, but he wouldn't. They fired tranquilizer darts at him, darts that he turned back on them with little more than a passing thought. They slumped to the floor. But there were too many to fight, and Steve was weak from the drugs disabling him. He didn't see the doctor come at him with another needle until it bit its way into his leg that was still bound to the table. The man scurried away, eyes wide, as Steve collapsed and suffered with the new chemical coursing through his veins. It still wasn't enough to calm him. The room shook with his rage. He was angry. He was so angry.

Glass shattered. The lights flickered and exploded and electricity sparked. A woman screamed as she was thrown against the far wall. Alarms wailed, ear-piercing warnings that summoned more soldiers and guards to restrain the prisoner. A researcher fumbled to load another syringe, but Steve gave him a glance and crushed his hand before he could even get the needle out of its packaging.

However, his defiance ended there. The sedatives flooding his system were acting quickly now, stealing strength and power, syphoning his thoughts from his head. And a swarm of soldiers charged into the room. They quickly restrained him, grabbing his freed right hand and pulling it down. It took three or four of them to do it. He wanted to fight them off, but he couldn't concentrate. He couldn't gather his thoughts, and his emotions were being dragged back into the nothingness. Steve slumped onto the table. The room spun and he felt sick. "You fools," seethed a woman's voice. "Get him down and keep him there."

"We didn't know if we should give him–"

"Keep him unconscious! He's more powerful than you can imagine."

"Doctor Rappaccini, he's choking. He's choking!"

He was. Bile burned its way up his throat as his stomach clenched and roiled. Gagged and mostly bound to the table, all he could do was struggle weakly, panicked and drowning as his mouth flooded, before somebody ripped the tape away. The hands holding him shifted to prop him up so that his airway drained as he vomited. The sedatives were sucking the energy from him, one eternity to the next, and he could barely breathe. Asthma and sickness and fever. Poison in his head.

When the torture was over, they laid him back down upon the table. Somebody came to wipe his face. Weakly he tried to push the hands away, but someone else grabbed his wrist again and secured it at his side. "I want the subject sedated unless I tell you otherwise. Understand?"

"But Doctor Banner's notes specifically expressed his concerns that continued usage of the dendrotoxin could cause cardiac or respiratory arrest, and his breathing was–"

"Give me the needle. Now."

Steve was fading. Slowly he blinked, his senses sporadically feeding information to his failing brain. There was a woman leaning over him with dark hair and blue eyes. The woman from before. She said nothing, disgust boiling in her gaze. She shook her head and looked up, tapping the air bubbles out of another hypodermic needle. "Please," Steve whispered. "Please don't." She never looked at him, never even acknowledged his plea. She stuck the needle deep in his bicep and injected him. This last time would prove to be enough to finally overcome his serum-enhanced metabolism. He knew it instantly.

"Clean this mess up," she ordered as she grabbed his jaw and turned his face to peer into his eyes. He tried to look back, but he couldn't. He couldn't focus. He couldn't fight. He could barely breathe. He was losing everything now. Quickly. She frowned again, angry and cold. She seemed satisfied with what she saw, though, because she walked away, talking to her research team with long words he couldn't understand. The sound of her heels clicking on the tiled floor was thunderous. His head was throbbing. His heart was pounding, but the pounding was getting slower and slower and more strained. He was shaking. His mouth tasted disgusting. He was thirsty. He felt so hot and sweaty and so very tired.

_"Are you hurt, Steve?" _Peggy's calm, loving voice cut through the world dying around him. Her brown eyes were open and filled with concern. Her hands were gentle on his shoulders as she let him lean into her. He wanted to kiss her. He thought he did. He thought she leaned into him, breathless but sure of herself, and tangled her hands in his hair and kissed him back. She pushed him down to a bunk, and he was too worn and battered to fight her. She would take care of him. Her fingers cupped his face and lifted his chin so that his half-lidded gaze met hers. She smiled, worried but warm. So warm and so sweet. This wasn't a dream. He was sure of it. _"Can you look at me? Steve?"_

He finally closed his eyes and slipped back down into the darkness.

* * *

Steve had lost and regained consciousness so many times that nothing was making sense anymore. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know _when_ it was. 1928. Sometime during the 30s. 1943. 1945. 2012 or 2014. It was all blending together into a stream of vivid randomness. Good memories. Bad memories. New memories that he knew were bad. Some small part of his mind still tethered to sanity and self-preservation tried to force these awful things down, but they kept rising. He was their hapless prisoner. They were nightmares that twisted and turned so quickly that he could hardly make heads or tails of them. Violence and blood and pain. War. Getting hit and hit and _hurt_ and struggling back to his feet. That seemed to be all he was good for.

Time was passing. He wasn't sure how much. Minutes. Hours. Days. Somehow it didn't matter. He was drifting on the whims of his mind, his mind that now saw the world so differently than it had before Daniel Lahey got his hands on him. Everything was in motion. Everything was alive. Guns and glass and people and power. So much power. It was calling to him all the time, the only constant in this existence of his that was now continually shifting and spinning and changing and moving. It was in his body, in his blood, in his brain. In his heart. It was terrifying and exciting all at once, horrifying but so incredible. He could do things he'd never dreamed. He could _feel_ the world down to its very molecules and the forces between them, and he could alter them just with a single thought. Not even a single thought. A fleeting emotion. The slightest inclination. A wish. A whisper of his soul. He could change things, remake them as he saw fit. That was why he'd stood up to the bullies. Why he'd joined the army. Why he'd become Captain America. Why he led the Avengers and worked with SHIELD. He wanted to protect people.

A shield between the darkness and the light. A shield against evil.

_Not a shield, Captain. A weapon._

Steve came awake with a gasp. He immediately squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. His brain felt like it was pulsing, expanding and slamming against his skull, throbbing with power. Gritting his teeth and dropping his forehead to his knees was all he could do to ride out the agony. He felt the floor shake beneath him and the wall shake behind him and his heart tremble in his chest. The pain was so strong it almost dragged him back to the darkness and the delirium, but he was stronger. _Not this time._

For a seeming infinite period, he wavered, trapped between awareness and the hell inside his head. When he finally came away from it, he was aware, truly _aware_, for the first time in what felt to be forever. He was in some sort of cell. It was fairly big and built of white walls and white floors and a white ceiling. He was bound to the wall behind him, his arms held above his head by metal cuffs that were too strong to be broken (he vaguely remembered trying once and getting shocked for his efforts – somebody was watching him). He'd woken up here before. The day before, maybe. He couldn't remember for sure because there were huge spans of time missing from his mind, gaps that his brain was attempting to fill with other confusing things. He only knew for sure that AIM had kidnapped him. AIM was doing things to him. That was why Lahey had done his experiment. The bastard had been working for AIM. And now AIM wanted to make him into a weapon. AIM wanted to figure out how to make him hurt people.

He couldn't remember much beyond the table and the blurry faces and voices. And pain. So much pain. He couldn't recall a time without pain anymore. It seemed forever ago that he'd had any control, that he'd felt normal. That he and Clint had been talking about the last Dodgers game on their way to Lahey's lab and maybe getting out to LA sometime to see them play before the season ended. He had laughed and Clint had laughed, easy and simple, Barton deriding Stark for thinking he could outdrive them…

Steve swallowed a sob and pulled his knees up to his brow again.

"Hey, Stevie." That soft voice with its familiar Brooklyn accent cut through the haze. "You're lookin' rough there, kid."

His head was heavy so it was difficult to look up. But he did. "Bucky," he said. His voice was very hoarse, a weak croak compared to its normal, commanding strength. Relief rushed over him, strong and warm, as he saw Bucky standing in front of him, dressed in that awful brown suit he always used to wear because he thought it made the dames swoon over him. That damn ugly brown suit. Steve smiled but started shivering again. "Been looking all over for you. Everywhere."

"I know."

"You came."

"'Course I did." Bucky smiled, too. It was that knowing smile, that same one he always wore when Steve had come home beaten up. When Steve had gotten himself hurt. Steve was getting himself hurt all the time. "You'd get yourself killed otherwise, you punk." He stepped closer, his scuffed shoes loud in the box in which they were trapped. "You knew that I'd be here. Not gonna leave you." There was a touch of admonishment in his tone. "Come on. When have I ever, huh?"

Steve didn't answer. Twice. Once when Bucky had gone off to war. Once when he'd fallen from the train. But he was here now, so there was no reason to delve into that. Bucky sighed and sat beside him, close enough that Steve immediately sagged into his familiar warmth. "How are you feeling?" Bucky asked.

Steve groaned and let his eyes slide shut again. The lights were too bright. Everything was so much. Too much. He breathed deeply. That stupid brown suit smelled like their old apartment and Bucky's mother's cooking and cigar smoke from the places they used to go and perfume from the women Bucky used to date. It smelled like home. "Steve? You with me? How're you feeling?"

"Not good, Buck," Steve whispered. Back before, when they'd been boys and young men and even soldiers during the war, he'd always said he was fine. When his father had hit him. When he'd been sick. When the bullies had beaten him up. When his mother had died. When he'd been injured during battle. He'd always said he was fine, that he was okay. That it wasn't as bad as it looked and he wasn't hurt as much as he seemed. He'd heal. It wasn't a lie, really. He always thought he could.

But not this time. "It hurts," he said. "It hurts real bad."

"I know."

"They're doin' stuff to me, Bucky." His words were slurring. "They're… I think they cut into my head." Memories (particularly of _that_ unpleasant experience) prodded against the edges of his consciousness. He couldn't look at them. He simply couldn't. "I don't know what. I don't know. They're gonna make me…"

"They can't make you do anything," Bucky said. He sounded certain and strong. He set his arm around Steve's shoulders even with Steve's hands bound as they were. Steve's whole torso and upper body fiercely ached, and he sagged as much as he could against Bucky. He closed his eyes. They were burning with tears, but he was goddamn tired of crying and feeling so helpless and _damaged_. "You know they can't. Nobody can make you do anything." Bucky smiled that stupid smile of his again. Steve felt it against the crown of his head. "You're Captain America, aren't you?"

Steve couldn't help but grin a little, too. "You hate Captain America."

"I don't hate Captain America," Bucky answered. Gently his hand massaged the knots in Steve's shoulders from having his arms above his head for so long. Bucky hadn't held him like this in years, not since they'd been kids and bunking together in Bucky's bed in his folks' apartment because it had been too miserably cold for Steve to sleep on the floor, especially with his lungs as bad off as they were. Bucky shook his head. "I gotta admit I'm not a fan of the outfit. But mostly I just don't like what being Captain America does to you. Case in point: this crazy bastard would've never pumped his poison into you if it wasn't for that stupid serum you let the army inject you with."

Steve groaned to that. "Probably not."

"And you being you had to throw yourself on the wire to protect other people. One man is worth less than two or five or ten or a hundred, right?"

"Please don't lecture me, Buck." He honestly didn't think he could take it.

"I'm not gonna lecture you," Bucky said, long-suffering. "Just thinkin' this is a raw deal, is all." Steve had honestly been wondering the same thing. The gravity of the situation became undeniable to him during these moments of clarity. He didn't know if the others were coming for him, if Clint and Tony were even alive. He didn't know if he could hold out if AIM tortured him or tried to turn him. He'd been trained to withstand pain, but not when he had to fight his own mind as much as he had to fight them. Maybe it would just be better if…

"Don't you dare think that."

Steve closed his eyes. The pain was coming back, like a knife slicing into his head. "It might be the only way."

"Don't you _dare_ think that!" Bucky snapped. He was furious.

Steve winced. "I can't hold on. I can't think straight. I–"

"Yes, you can. You can hold on."

"If they turn me against the others…" Against SHIELD. Against Natasha and Tony and Bruce. Against Clint. The idea hurt even more than the migraine shooting through his skull, and it frightened him more than dying, more than the nightmares going on inside his head. "I can't let that happen. I can't let them take me."

"They won't. They can't, you hear me? You're Captain America." He pulled away from Steve's side and knelt in front of him and grabbed his face. His eyes were sharp and insistent, and his expression was angry. Bucky always had a short temper. And he didn't pull his punches or tolerate nonsense like this. "You don't think that. You don't quit. You don't. Goddamn it, Steve, you can't quit. Even if they strip every other thought out of your head, this one thing is still going to be there: you keep fighting." Steve sagged in his bonds. He was so exhausted. He didn't think he could. "I don't care how tired you are. I don't care if it hurts. I don't care if you're scared. You're Steve Rogers. You don't quit. You never have, and you never will."

"Please get me out of here, Buck. _Please._" He never begged. _Never_. Not during all the times in their youth when maybe he should have.

Bucky's face fractured in grief. "I can't," he whispered. "You know this isn't real."

Steve closed his eyes, but that didn't stop the hot rush of tears. The sob itching in his throat escaped. Bucky roughly pressed his lips to Steve's forehead and tucked his head to his shoulder. The brown suit that smelled like home muffled his cries. "I know what this is like. I know what it's like to have somebody do things to you. Horrible things, and you can't even remember what or why. You think you're alone, pal, but you're not. You know how I know that?" Steve didn't answer. "Because when this happened to me, you came for me. They'll come for you. Clint and Howard's son and the others."

"You don't know that," Steve said softly. "I don't know that."

"Maybe not. But you need to believe it. You think Clint's gonna leave you here? I know how close you are with him. A little like we were. You think I'd ever stop trying to find you?" Steve sighed through his next sob, trying to pull himself together if only a little. "They'll get you out of this. They'll fix it, just like they said they would. You just gotta hold out until then. And your body? It's fighting, too. You know it is."

Words came out of the haze. Words he'd heard before. _"The rate of genetic transformation is continuing to decline. It must be the serum counteracting Lahey's drug."_

_"The reaction isn't stable. His powers aren't controllable. They may even be diminishing."_

_"That's unacceptable! How do we stabilize it?"_

Bucky's voice was a low, comforting rumble against his ear. "That serum may be a raw deal, but it doesn't surrender, and neither do you. I know that 'cause you were strong _way_ before they turned you into Captain America. You've always known everything there is to know about beatin' the long odds. Have since the day you were born. Your ma always said that, you know. You're so goddamn stubborn. It's what makes you such a pain in the ass." Steve grunted half a hoarse laugh. Something warm blossomed in his chest. Hope. Trust that maybe this could be okay somehow. That he could be okay. "You fight, Stevie. That's what you do. You fight. And you'll keep fighting. I know you will because I know you. You're a good man. Nobody's taking you."

He could breathe a little easier. The pain wasn't so sharp anymore. Things felt softer. Clearer. "You're right, Bucky," he said quietly. He sniffed, blinking away the remainder of his tears.

Bucky pulled back and cupped his face again. He braced his forehead against Steve's. "Always am, aren't I?" he said with a smile.

"Yeah," Steve murmured. Suddenly he couldn't keep his eyes open. The tension left his muscles. He felt like he could rest easy. Just for this moment.

"Sleep, pal. I'm watching over you. Just like old times. You're not going it alone."

"Bucky…"

"Sleep."

He did. For this moment, he wasn't afraid. Bucky was there. Bucky would protect him.

* * *

"Wake up."

Steve jolted to awareness. He pushed himself back against the wall. The woman stood there, flanked by a dozen people in lab coats and even more soldiers dressed in black with rifles and stun and tranquilizer guns pointed at him. His heart leapt in his throat. The world exploded in motion and color around him, a rush of power tied to the rise of his panic, and all he could think was he needed to escape.

The woman smiled humorlessly. "I can see in your eyes that you're thinking about attacking us and attempting to run. Before you do, know that it's impossible. As fast and strong as you are, you're not fast or strong enough to break free and kill all of us before we sedate you again. I would rather not engage in that, and I require that you be alert for this next part. Also know that I can send enough voltage through the cuffs around your wrists to stop your heart. Believe me when I tell you that would be rather unpleasant." She cocked her head, and Steve could see her thumb was poised over a small device she had in the palm of her right hand. "It would be much easier on all of us if you cooperate."

"Why the hell should I cooperate?" Steve demanded.

She looked at him as though she was an irritated parent needing to explain yet another blatantly obvious thing to a child. "Because you're sick and in pain. You want to get better, and we want to find a way to make you better."

"You're a goddamned liar," Steve snapped. He wasn't going to let her use his emotions against him like this. "The only thing you want to figure out is how to stop the serum from stopping Lahey's drug."

She was nonplussed. "Yes, and when we do that, the pain will stop with it."

"I'd rather suffer with the worst pain imaginable for the rest of my life than help you."

"The rest of your life? You should know that that may be considerably shorter than you realize. This… _war_, for lack of a better term, occurring inside your body is damaging you. Your DNA is showing signs of instability. If it denatures, it will result in cell death. Doctor Banner began to detect this before we took you, and it has accelerated. He was concerned that it could prove fatal, and he's not prone to exaggeration. Unless we control the mutation process, you could die."

Steve didn't care. It was an empty threat, even if it was true, and he didn't think it was. At least not wholly. He felt _better_, more grounded. More certain that this was real and that he was in control. He knew it was the serum. It was protecting him. Healing him, like it always had in the past. "I've already died from this once. It wasn't permanent."

She actually laughed at that. "You've been lucky. You've received two of the most potent serums that biomedical research has _ever_ produced to enhance human evolution. That's an incredible gift. One not deserved by someone not willing to use it to its fullest potential." She sounded envious. "Be that as it may, rest assured that under it all you are still human."

"Not a good thing to be reminding someone you're trying to turn into a weapon," Steve said coolly. "Who are you? How do you know Bruce?"

The woman's smile tightened. "He's an old friend," she answered. She didn't answer the other question, and she didn't elaborate more. "Enough. This is of no concern to you. Don't struggle. I want to test you in a controlled environment, but I will test you here if you test me."

That didn't sound good. It had felt empowering to be so in calm and in control, to have some semblance of command over his own situation, but now the fear came back. With the fear came that intense buzz of _power_ in his head, and the world was moving again. He swore he could see the air moving in and out of the woman's body, the way the soft tissues of their mouth and throat and chest were working in concert to make her breathe so effortlessly. He was lost in that for a costly moment, lost in fighting the urge to just _stop_ her lungs, because when he came back to himself, he was surrounded by the men in lab coats and the soldiers. Steve stiffened, clenching his jaw. "Don't," the woman warned. Her thumb was still poised over the device she had, the one that surely controlled the cuffs. She pressed a different button and his hands came away from the wall. The soldiers wasted no time in grabbing Steve and dragging him to his feet. They pulled his arms behind his back and the cuffs reattached to together. The muscles of his shoulders and arms were tingling and aching so badly he didn't have it within himself to even test the strength of his bonds, but something told him that breaking them wouldn't be possible, at least not without a struggle that would surely be noticed. And by the time he did that… "Now walk."

They did. Steve tried to stay calm, to keep that haze of energy contained within him, but it was damn difficult. The vague hints of the enormity of this place he'd had before were confirmed as this huge group of doctors and soldiers led him down the halls. He forced the panic down, forced the fear to succumb to rationality. Wherever they'd taken him wasn't underground; some of the rooms they passed had windows. If he dipped into that fog inside his head, he could feel a million tiny patters of rain striking the panes of glass. He could feel the electricity run through the walls and into lights and computers. People's hearts beating as they passed him. Feet striking the tiles on the floor above them. Minute vibrations of the building's cooling system forcing air through vents. He could feel all these things, but it wasn't so sharp, so upsetting. The images in his mind were hazy. That painful blur of motion was indistinct. And the bad memories and the nightmares were indistinct, too. It was all there, but distant. Like there was a wall between him and the things that hurt him. The same wall there always had been. The same shield. The serum. His own strength. Bucky was right. It was still alive underneath all the damage. It was still fighting.

Logic trumped madness, and for the first time in days he could really _think_. He must have been up at least a few floors because the electricity was going up the walls and there were footsteps above and below him. He could feel the heat of people, which felt different from the heat of computers and equipment, and there were way too many of them for him to fight. She was guarding him with a veritable army. He wasn't strong enough to take down so many at once; if they overwhelmed him, he had no doubt that they would sedate him again. And even if he somehow escaped and defeated them all, he would have to find his way out of here, wherever here was. For all he knew, he could be on the other side of the world. It started to occur to him that maybe now wasn't a good time for his powers to be weakening. He despised them, this disease eating away at who he was, but he knew he needed them. And he knew that feeling better was a result of them diminishing. _He knew it._ The irony that he could finally mount some sort of logical defense that was more than just mindlessly lashing out right when the hysteria powering his newfound abilities quieted to the point where he didn't think he could use them… He ducked his head and tried not to cry or laugh.

They led him down a short stairwell to some place that _was _on the ground. That was about all he could tell about it because it felt like it was shielded. It was a huge room, with walls made of thick concrete and steel. There was nothing in it. Absolutely nothing. Nothing but him and the slew of soldiers threatening him.

The woman's heels echoed as she walked closer. She slid her thumb over the device again, and Steve's wrists were loosened. He was surprised for a second at the sudden freedom, but he didn't waste more than that before pulling away from the men restraining him and twisting back toward the door. "No," she warned. One jolt of electricity through his wrists was enough to drop him, and he went down hard with a hoarse cry. The pain arced across his body, effectively ripping his thoughts away, and he couldn't do anything aside from convulse uncontrollably on the cold floor until she stopped it.

Steve gasped in relief, rolling onto his side and pulling his legs to his chest in an instinctive attempt to protect himself. The _clack clack_ of her shoes grew louder as she came to stand over him. "Cooperate. We need to correlate your abilities with the levels of genetic transformation in your neurons. In order to do that, I have to see what you can do."

Steve spat a mouthful of blood from where he'd bitten his tongue to the floor. "Go to hell," he groaned as he rolled again and tried to push himself up. His body was so abused that it was too difficult to get his feet beneath him, and he slumped onto his knees. Still, he looked up at her in defiance. "You can't make me do anything. And you won't kill me."

"You're right. You're far too valuable. I can't kill you. But the Leader already instructed me on your particular brand of weakness."

One of the scientists was busily entering data on her pad when two of the soldiers grabbed her by the arms. "What are you–" She squealed in surprise as she was shoved forward, closer to Steve. Her pad clattered to the floor as they aimed their rifles at her head. Steve watched the random display of violence, dismay and dread growing in the pit of his stomach. He tried to hold his expression into a stoic glare, but he was too tired and afraid to really manage it. The woman whimpered, shivering with her legs bent awkwardly beneath her and her hands raised in the air and tears spilling down her white face. "Doctor Rappaccini, please, _please!_ I didn't do anything!"

The woman, Rappaccini, ignored the scientist her men had taken hostage and stared down at her captive. "Get him up," she said, and three of the soldiers roughly grabbed Steve's arms and pulled him to his feet. Steve wobbled dizzily for a moment. He tasted blood at the back of his throat, blood that he knew was coming from his nose, and tried not to be sick. That control he'd finally found was fleeting, and he knew it, and holding onto it was all he could do to not crack. "Now," she said coming closer. She watched uncaringly as blood dripped down Steve's face and he brought a shaking hand up to try and stop it. "I want to see what you can do."

Steve could barely breathe his body began to shake so badly. He swallowed thickly. "I – I can't control it like that."

"Have you tried?" she asked. Behind her, the rest of her researchers were feverishly taking notes and looking small and insignificant in hopes that she wouldn't turn to them for additional leverage.

"Yes," Steve said sharply, "but it doesn't always work."

She looked at him squarely, not at all convinced. "Try harder." It wasn't a request. Steve glanced at the quivering woman over Rappaccini's shoulder. She was weeping, her breath a wheezing sob of abject horror. Steve's mind immediately went back to the moment he'd saved the girl in the bank, the girl held at gun point. He went back to that blank place inside him where only the desire to save her and hurt the man hurting her had been. He didn't know if he could keep himself there. This moment of clarity was affording him a new measure of understanding. He thought he could control it when he was trying to protect people. He didn't know why (_it's because you're Captain America and that's what you do – you protect people)_ but it was true. The family with the bus. The woman at the bank. Tony and Clint in the SHIELD lab. But his emotions always got the better of him, and the pain got stronger, and then…

Did she know that? Did this Leader person? _How?_

"Try," she warned again.

Steve drew as deep a steadying breath as he could manage. "What do you want me to do?"

* * *

Everything. Too much. For the first hour or so, Steve was able to stay conscious and aware enough to think. What they wanted started off simple enough. "Levitate this. Spin it in the air. Hold it perfectly still." He did these things, following their commands like little more than a robot, as they measured his vitals and ran their scans and took their readings. Most of the time he was able to do what they asked, and when he wasn't, the image of that crying woman held completely at their mercy was enough to motivate him. "Break this into two pieces. Four pieces. Into as many as possible." He did it. The rage was there, getting stronger and stronger as the pain in his head increased. It was increasingly difficult to keep it under control, to not send the shards of glass and plastic and metal toward the men holding her at gun point. Somehow he kept himself calm. Somehow.

But his strength was waning. They kept at him. It turned to manipulating fire, putting it out or starting it, raising the temperature of objects. Bending flames, twisting them around things and around other people and himself. He wasn't strong enough to stop himself from getting burned. That made the pain worse, and he slipped in and out of consciousness for a moment, exhaustion grabbing at him with greedy fingers and ripping at his control. His nightmares ripped at him, too, tearing him apart a piece at a time. Electricity. His control over that wasn't as efficient. Could he power machines. Maybe before he could – he was pretty sure he had with Tony's suit – but now he couldn't. Could he turn one type of energy into another. Could he deflect it, direct it, create it or destroy it. The latter two weren't possible, and they _knew _it. Even he understood enough about the fundamental nature of science and the universe to understand that, but they kept driving him to try. "I can't," he moaned, down on his knees and trembling. "I can't."

They made their notes. The parts of him drowning in pain and fatigue hated them, their smug faces and their pensive expressions. Their goddamn lab coats and murmurs to each other. Their conclusions and deductions. Monsters, all of them. Standing and doing _nothing_ while one of their own was unrepentantly used to force another human being into difficult and dangerous experiments. Steve used to respect scientists; Erskine had been a hero to him, a true symbol of strength and courage and intelligence and integrity. He admired Bruce and Tony for all the good they did with what they knew. But this… He _hated_ them.

That hate got the best of him once or twice and he found himself on the floor, the seconds he'd spent electrocuted and seizing erased from his memory. He suffered with the aftershocks, too beaten and weary and sick to do much besides throw up what little remained in his stomach and ride out the waves of agony. They pulled him back to his feet and brought new things into the room from outside. Huge things. Cars and tractor trailers. "Lift them," Rappaccini ordered. He didn't think he could. "Lift them."

He staggered toward the car, trying to see straight. He didn't know modern makes and models, but it looked older and heavy. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to concentrate through the pain intent on splitting his head open. When he reached inside himself for the power, when he looked at the car and saw it moving, saw its iron and steel and rubber and paint, saw to its very particles… When he looked, all the blackness inside him pushed against his will and tried to take him down. It was as much work to hold that back as it was to try and raise the car into the air. His whole body shook as he did. The car rattled and vibrated before he managed to get it off the floor a few feet. "Hold it there." He did for a torturous minute, and after that the whole thing went down to the floor with a thud.

Steve wavered. He nearly collapsed, but one of the guards caught him on the way down and steadied him on his feet. He could hardly keep his eyes open. He came back to himself after succumbing to the ragged pounding of his heart between his ears for what seemed to be forever. Rappaccini was there in front of him. She didn't look pleased. Vaguely he wondered from the impatient frown on her face how much time had passed. "Now the other."

He turned throbbing eyes to the tractor trailer. "I can't," he said.

"You were capable of more than this before," she said. "The damage to Stark Tower. Doctor Banner noted in a few of his reports that you stopped the power of the Hulk on more than one occasion. This is nothing comparatively."

He didn't really remember the first time he'd stopped the Hulk. It had been before everything had started to fall apart inside him, that he knew. The other times he'd been out of control. Was that what she wanted? For him to lose control? Was that what this was about? She had no idea how dangerous that was. _Show her. _"I can't," he said again.

"You need to try," she reminded him.

"Doctor, he needs to rest," one of the others said. "He's severely dehydrated."

She ignored him. "Do it," she ordered.

Steve didn't know why he obeyed. There was the threat of the woman's death and his own torture, but more than that, he just wanted this to be over. He wiped his mouth, fighting to straighten to his full height. He turned to the trailer, to its tons of steel and iron, and saw it as he'd seen the car. The darkness climbed inside him, reaching for him as he reached for the trailer. The pain was excruciating. He ground his teeth together, throwing both hands toward the trailer as though the physical action could help. His heart was pounding. The room fell away. The scientists. The soldiers. The hostage and the guns. The woman. There was only the trailer and his beating heart and the anger inside of him pulsating and growing like a tumor. Sweat covered his scalp and dripped down his face. Blood dripped, too. But he didn't stop. And he lifted the trailer.

The rage. It broke free. _Kill them. Crush them. They'll hurt you. They'll hurt you. Kill them all._

_ Show her what you can do. _

_No! _He pulled it screamed and tossed the trailer to the opposite end of the room. It crashed against the wall with a horrific, reverberating bang. He watched it settle against the concrete, a mass of distorted metal that continued to twist as he directed his anger at it. When he was spent, he went down onto his knees. Tears flooded his eyes, and he buried his face in his bloodied, burned hands.

The room was silent. Or he didn't hear. His senses seemed almost shorted-out for what felt like a long time. He breathed, dropping his chin to his chest and his hands to his thighs. It was all he could do to stay upright. Inside he was raw and bleeding.

That shadow loomed over him. "Look at me." He was too worn. His eyelids wouldn't open, and his neck hurt too much to lift his head. "Look at me." There was a threat in that soft, husky tone, and he found himself following the demand. "You're not finished," Rappaccini declared.

Steve couldn't move. The exhaustion had seeped into every fiber of muscle and bone in his body. But the guards lifted him to his feet again by his arms and dragged him back towards the rest of the group. The woman was still there. The guns were still trained on her. They dropped Steve in front of her. "There's one more test we need to perform."

Steve's thoughts were so scattered that he didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. The doctor who'd mentioned before that he needed rest was selected from the group. The man was shocked and his face blanched as guns were shoved in it. "Kill her," Rappaccini coldly said to Steve, "or we'll shoot them both."

He didn't make sense of that for a horrific moment. His gaze widened as it moved from the sobbing woman to the terrified man to Rappaccini's stoic face. "What?" he whispered.

"You heard me," she said. "You've broken bones before. You've killed with these powers before. I've seen it."

"That was in defense."

"I want you to crush her throat."

"No."

"Choke her. Do it now."

"No!"

There was no negotiation. No taunting or manipulating or demanding. The rifles fired, and two bodies hit the floor.

Steve was lost. He closed his eyes to the sight of the blood draining from the corpses. He was numb. No rage. No despair. No guilt or grief or pain. Nothing.

Rappaccini shook her head in disgust again. In disappointment. She turned to what remained of her research staff and calmly and simply announced, "Prep him for another dose of Lahey's drug."

* * *

Steve thought he was dreaming. Reality had turned into nightmares. Nightmares bled into reality. He wasn't sure which was which anymore. Maybe that had been the point of it all. To drive him crazy. To drive him into nothing and no one. He was so tormented and fatigued that he hardly fought as they forced him down and injected him with another sedative that made his limbs leaden and his mind foggy and useless. They needed to keep him docile as they dragged him away, heading through the building to someplace else. He didn't know. He couldn't fight. He didn't fight.

There was some sort of frantic conversation going on around him. "Doctor, we don't even know if he'll survive another Gamma exposure."

"He'll survive it. Erskine's serum has kept him alive through all this. It won't stop now."

"We have data to analyze now. Tons of it. We can measure this against new samples after he–"

"That won't tell us anything beyond what we already know. His powers should have fed off of his emotions. The pain became devastating, but he held his rage back. He kept himself under control. He should have destroyed us, but he didn't." That gave the others pause. "The super soldier serum is preventing him from reaching his full potential. We need to correct that."

"There's no indication that a second dose of the drug will do what you think it will do! We need time–"

"There is no time. The serum is writing his DNA _back_ to what it was. It's winning this war. We need to overwhelm it, beat it down now. If we wait, we lose what little ground we have."

"If we do this without being reasonably certain he'll live, that will be a rather moot point, won't it?"

"We don't even know if we have Lahey's serum right. We've got no way to test it!"

"You've had two weeks, plus the data we stole from SHIELD. It had better be right."

"And if it's not? We could kill him."

"You knew the risks when you agreed to be part of this project."

"Yes, but–"

"Either you are with me or against me," Rappaccini hissed. "And if you are against me, you have no place in the Leader's new world."

The argument faded. He was being carried away. Wearily he took note of where he was. Another lab. Another goddamn torture chamber. Steve's mind was lost in a haze, but his body struggled weakly of its own accord when he saw the metal table and the equipment around it. "No," he moaned. He tried to pull free as the soldiers moved him inside the smaller room. "Not again. No. Please don't do this to me."

"On three. One, two, three!" They lifted him onto the table and held him prone on his stomach. They positioned his hands on either side of his head, and his forehead was placed onto some sort of padded headrest. The cuffs around his wrists immediately magnetized and held him down. He kicked and squirmed, but his ankles were caught and restrained, too.

"Please," he whispered. "I don't want to. _Please._" Nobody listened. Nobody cared. The soldiers stayed, their guns pressed to his bare back, and the researchers moved around him, readying their equipment and taking their readings. They touched him, measured things. He shivered in fear. He couldn't see them. He couldn't see anything but the white tiles of the floor under him and his own sweat and blood and tears dripping down onto them. "Please don't do this. Somebody help me."

"Easy, Steven." That voice was familiar. A comforting hand slid down his arm to rest on his shoulder. Steve jerked but relaxed as a friendly face appeared to his left. Doctor Erskine crouched beside him. His salt and pepper hair was a mess. He wore a brown suit and a white lab coat. His glasses shone in the harsh lights, but his bearded face was calm and gentle and sad. "Just relax. I know you're afraid."

Those words were not at all comforting. "Don't make me do this," Steve implored. "Please. I can't. I can't!"

"I know," Erskine softly said. He frowned, his brown eyes teeming with compassion. He was helpless and horrified but trying not to seem it. "And I'm sorry. This was not what I intended. But it can't be stopped now. You have to go through with it." Steve arched his back, his mouth opening in a soundless cry as pain knifed up and down his spine. The scientists were holding him steady, positioning the equipment, the needles that would fill his body with Lahey's drug again, working and speaking amongst each other like he wasn't there. Like he was only a subject and not a person. Like the man didn't matter. "The man does matter," Erskine reminded. His accent was thick and his voice was rough with emotion. "The man always matters. You know why you were chosen for this procedure."

Steve squeezed his eyes shut. "Because I can survive it," he hoarsely answered.

"No," Erskine said. "Because you can overcome it."

"I – I don't know if I can…"

"You can." Erskine's hand was warm and tender on his shoulder. A friendly touch in a world turned cruel and cold and uncaring. And his eyes were the same as they always had been. Wise. Compassionate. Hopeful. "You remember, Steven," he said, "what you promised me."

Steve could barely breathe. "I remember," he gasped.

"Stay a good man. Promise me again."

"I promise."

"Good. Now bite on this. It'll help with the pain." Erskine slid a guard in his mouth, a hard piece of plastic that his teeth immediately clamped around. Steve fought to keep his breathing steady through his nose, but it was a losing battle. Erskine watched him sadly a moment more. Then he stood and his hand left Steve's shoulder. "Infusion in ten seconds."

Every muscle in Steve's body was tense with fear. _Stay a good man_, he thought. It was a chant, over and over again. _Stay a good man. Stay a good man. You're Captain America. You don't quit. You keep fighting. You can overcome this. Stay a good man. Stay a good man. Keep fighting. Keep–_

"Begin the infusion."

The drug flooded him again. Steve heard himself scream a muffled scream as the poison burned away all his thoughts save one. Bucky had lied to him. That one thought wasn't that he needed to keep fighting.

It was that he hoped he died for good this time.

He didn't.


End file.
